A Different Story: The Chamber of Secrets
by HQandJLover
Summary: What if Harry Potter wasn't James and Lily Potter's only child? What if Harry had three other siblings? What if they all lived with him at the Dursleys? What if Harry wasn't the only one that got a letter to Hogwarts? Read on to find out. Book #2. I only own my OCs. J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.
1. The Worst Birthday

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over

breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew and nieces' room.

Vernon: Third time this week! If you can't

control those owls, they'll have to go!"

Harry, Grace, and Taylor tried, yet again, to explain.

Harry: They're bored. They're used to flying around outside. If we could just let them out at night…

Vernon: Do I look stupid? I know what'll happen if that

owl's let out.

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Grace tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys' son, Dudley.

Dudley: I want more bacon.

Petunia: There's more in the frying pan, sweetums.

We must build you up while we've got the chance… I don't like the sound of that school food…

Vernon: Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings. Dudley gets enough, don't you, son?"

Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry.

Dudley: Pass the frying pan.

Taylor: You've forgotten the magic word.

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Petunia gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Vernon jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples. Amy, Grace, and Harry were not affected by this sentence.

Taylor: I meant 'please'. I didn't mean…

Vernon: WHAT HAVE I TOLD ABOUT SAYING THE 'M' WORD IN OUR HOUSE?

Taylor: But I…

Vernon: HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY

Taylor: I just…

Vernon: I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!

Taylor stared from her purple-faced uncle to her pale aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.

Taylor: All right, all right…

Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Taylor, Harry, Grace, and Amy closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.

Ever since Taylor, Harry, Amy, and Grace had come home for the summer holidays, Vernon had been treating them like a bomb that might go off at

any moment, because Harry, Taylor, Grace, and Amy Potter we not normal kids. As a matter

of fact, they were not normal as it is possible to be.

Harry Potter is a wizard and Amy, Grace, and Taylor Potter are witches — a wizard and witches fresh from their first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, except for Amy who starts this year. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have them back for the holidays, it was nothing to how they felt. They missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomachache. They missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, their classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in their four-poster beds in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world (six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).

All Harry, Grace, and Taylor's spell books, their wands, robes, cauldron, and Harry's top-of the-line Nimbus Two-Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant they had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House Quidditch team because he hadn't practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry, Grace, and Taylor went back to school without any of his homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard and three witches in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry, Grace, and Taylor's owls inside their cages, to stop them from carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world. Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Vernon is large and neck less, with an enormous black mustache; Petunia is horse-faced and bony; Dudley is blond, pink, and porky. Taylor, on the other hand, is small and skinny, with brilliant hazel eyes and red hair. Grace is small and skinny, with brilliant hazel eyes and jet-black hair. Amy is small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and red hair. Harry is small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy. He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a thin, lightning-shaped scar. It was this scar that made Harry so particularly unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only hint of Harry's very mysterious past, of the reason he, Taylor, Grace, and Amy had been left on the Dursleys' doorstep eight years before. At the age of three years old and Amy at two years old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards still feared to speak. Harry, Amy, Taylor, and Grace's parents had died in Voldemort's attack, but Grace, Amy, and Taylor escaped unscratched, while Harry had escaped with his lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood why —Voldemort's powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harry. So the four had been brought up by their dead mother's sister and her husband. They had spent eight years with the Dursleys, never understanding why they kept making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys' story that he had got his scar in the car crash that had killed their parents. And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harry, Taylor, and Grace, and the whole story had come out. Harry, Grace, and Taylor had taken up their place at wizard school, where they were famous . . . but now the school year was over, and they were back with the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated like a dog that had rolled in something

smelly. The Dursleys hadn't even remembered that today happened to be Taylor, Grace, and Harry's twelfth birthday. Of course, their hopes hadn't been high;

they'd never given them a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it completely… At that moment, Vernon cleared his throat importantly

Vernon: Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.

Taylor, Grace, and Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

Vernon: This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career

Harry, Amy, Taylor, and Grace went back to their food. Of course, they thought bitterly, Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Vernon's company made drills).

Vernon: I think we should run through the schedule one more time. We should all be in position at eight o'clock.

Petunia, you will be…?"

Petunia: In the lounge, waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.

Vernon: Good, good. And Dudley?

Dudley: I'll be waiting to open the door. 'May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?'

Petunia: They'll love him!

Vernon: Excellent, Dudley.

Then he rounded on Taylor, Harry, Grace, and Amy. Vernon: And you four?

Grace: We'll be in our bedroom, making no noise and pretending we're no there.

Vernon: Exactly, I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight fifteen…

Petunia: I'll announce dinner.

Vernon: And, Dudley, you'll say…

Dudley: 'May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?'

Petunia: My perfect little gentleman

Vernon: And you four?

Amy: We'll be in our room, making no noise and pretending not we're there.

Vernon: Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?

Petunia: Vernon tells me you're a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason… Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason…

Vernon: Perfect… Dudley?

Dudley: How about—'we had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.

This was too much for Petunia. Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son.

Vernon: And you, four?

Harry: We'll be in our room, making no noise and pretending we're not there.

Vernon: Too right, you will. The Masons don't know anything about you and it's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I'll bring the subject around to drills. With any luck, I'll have the deal signed and sealed before the news at ten. We'll be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow."

Vernon: Right—I'm off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And you four…you stay out of your aunt's way while she's cleaning.

Harry, Grace, and Taylor missed their best friends, Ron

Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn't seem to be missing them at all. Amy miser her best friend Ginny Weasley. None of them had written to them all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to ask Harry to come and stay.

Countless times, Harry, Grace, and Taylor had been on the point of unlocking their owls' cages by magic and sending them to Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn't worth the risk. Underage wizards and witches aren't allowed to use magic outside of school. Harry, Grace, and Taylor hadn't told the Dursleys this; they knew it was only their terror that they might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped them from locking them in the cupboard under the stairs with their wands and Harry's broomstick. For the first couple of weeks back, Harry and Taylor had enjoyed muttering nonsense words under their breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and Hermione had made them feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its appeal — and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten his birthday. What wouldn't he give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? They'd almost be glad of a sight of their archenemy, Draco Malfoy, just to be sure it hadn't all been a dream…not that their whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term, Harry had come face-to-face with none other than

Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort's clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, his wide, mad eyes—Taylor, Grace, Amy, and Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. They had been staring absent-mindedly into the hedge — and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous green eyes had appeared among the leaves.

They jumped to their feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.

Dudley: I know what day it is.

The huge eyes blinked and vanished.

Taylor: What?

Not taking their eyes off the spot where they had been.

Dudley: I know what day it is.

Grace: Well done, so you've finally learned the days of the week."

Dudley: Today's your birthday. How come you haven't got any cards? Haven't you even got friends at that freak place?"

Harry: Better not let your mum hear you talking about our school.

Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fat bottom.

Dudley: Why're you staring at the hedge

Taylor: We're trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire.

Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face.

Dudley: You c-can't — Dad told you you're not to do m-magic — he said he'll chuck you out of the house — and you haven't got anywhere else to go — you haven't got any friends to take you…

Taylor: Jiggery pokery! "Hocus pocus-squiggly wiggly…

Dudley: MUUUUUUM

Dudley trips over his feet as he dashes back toward the house.

Dudley: MUUUUM! He's doing you know what!

They paid dearly for their moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Petunia knew they hadn't really done magic, but they still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at their heads with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave them work to do, with the promise they wouldn't eat again until they'd finished. While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice cream, Taylor cleaned the windows, Grace washed the car, Harry mowed the lawn, Amy trimmed the flowerbeds, Grace pruned and watered the roses, and Harry repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of their necks. They knew they shouldn't have risen to Dudley's bait, but Dudley had said the very thing they had been thinking themselves…maybe he didn't have any friends at Hogwarts…Wish they could see famous Potters now, they thought savagely as Amy spread manure on the flower beds, her back aching, sweat running

down her face. It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, they heard Petunia calling them.

Petunia: Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!

They moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight's pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.

Petunia: Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!

Petunia pointed to eight slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress. They washed their hands and bolted down their pitiful supper. The moment they had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away their plates.

Petunia: Upstairs! Hurry!

As they passed the door to the living room, Amy caught a glimpse of Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. They had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Vernon's furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

Vernon: Remember, kids — one sound…

They crossed to their bedroom on tiptoe, slipped inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on their beds.

The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.


	2. Dobby's Warning

Amy managed not to shout out, but it was a close thing.

The little creature on the bed had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. Grace knew instantly that this was what had been watching them out of the garden hedge that morning.

As they stared at each other, they heard Dudley's voice from the hall.

Dudley: May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Taylor noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.

Harry: Er — hello.

Dobby: The Potters! So long has Dobby wanted to meet you… Such an honor it is…

Amy: Th-thank you

She wanted to ask, "What are you?" but thought it would sound too rude

Amy: Who are you?"

Dobby: Dobby, mam. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf.

Grace: Oh — really? Er — I don't want to be rude or anything, but — this isn't a great time for me to have a house-elf in our bedroom."

Petunia's high, false laugh sounded from the living room.

The elf hung his head.

Taylor: Not that we're not pleased to meet you, but, er, is there any particular reason you're here?

Dobby: Oh, yes, mam, Dobby has come to tell you, mam… it is difficult, mam… Dobby wonders where to begin… Amy: Sit down.

Amy points at the bed.

To her horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy tears.

Dobby: S-sit down! Never… never ever…

Grace thought she heard the voices downstairs falter.

Amy: I'm sorry; I didn't mean to offend you or anything…

Dobby: Offend Dobby! Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard—like an equal…

Amy, the comforting one, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Amy in an expression of watery adoration.

Harry: You can't have met many decent wizards.

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt up and started banging his head furiously on the window

Dobby: Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!

Taylor: Don't — what are you doing

She springs up and pulls Dobby back onto the bed; their owls had woken up with particularly loud screeches and were beating their wings wildly against the bars of their cages.

Dobby: Dobby had to punish himself, mam. Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, mam…

Grace: Your family?

Dobby: The wizard family Dobby serves, mam… Dobby is a house elf—bound to serve one house and one family forever…

Harry: Do they know you're here?

Dobby shuddered.

Dobby: Oh, no, sir, no . . . Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir…

Amy: But won't they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?

Dobby: Dobby doubts it, mam. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, mam. They let Dobby get on with it, mam. Sometimes they remind me to do extra punishments…

Grace: But why don't you leave? Escape?

Dobby: A house-elf must be set free, mam. And the family will never set Dobby free . . . Dobby will serve the family until he dies, mam…

Amy stared.

Taylor: And I thought we had it bad staying here for another four weeks. This makes the Dursleys sound almost human. Can't anyone help you? Can't I?

Almost at once, Taylor wished she hadn't spoken. Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.

Taylor: Please, please be quiet. If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you're here.

Dobby: Taylor Potter asks if she can help Dobby . . . Dobby has heard of your greatness, mam, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew…

Harry: Whatever you've heard about our greatness is a load of rubbish. Taylor and I are not even top of our year at Hogwarts; that's Hermione and Grace, they…

But he stopped quickly, because thinking about Hermione was painful.

Dobby: Harry Potter is humble and modest. Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…

Amy: Voldemort?

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears

Dobby: Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the name!

Amy: Sorry, I know lots of people don't like it.

Dobby leaned toward Amy, his eyes wide as headlights.

Dobby: Dobby heard tell, that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago… that Harry Potter escaped yet again.

Harry nodded and Dobby's eyes suddenly shone with tears.

Dobby: Ah, sir, Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect the Potters, to warn them; even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later… the Potters must not go back to Hogwarts.

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Vernon's voice.

Grace: W-what? But we've got to go back—term starts on September first. It's all that's keeping us going. You don't know what it's like here. We don't belong here. We belong in your world—at Hogwarts."

Dobby: No, no, no. The Potters must stay where they are safe. They are too great, too good, to lose. If the Potters go back to Hogwarts, they will be in mortal danger."

Taylor: Why?

Dobby: There is a plot. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year. Dobby has known it for months, mam. The Potters must not put themselves in peril. They are too important, mam!

Grace: What terrible things? Who's plotting them?

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall.

Grace: All right! You can't tell us. We understand. But why are you warning me? Hang on—this hasn't got anything to do with Vol—sorry—with You-Know-Who, has it? You could just shake or nod.

Slowly, Dobby shook his head.

Dobby: Not—not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, mam.

But Dobby's eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Taylor a hint. Taylor, however, was completely lost.

Taylor: He hasn't got a brother, has he?

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

Taylor: Well then, I can't think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts. I mean, there's Dumbledore, for one thing—you know who Dumbledore is, don't you?

Dobby bowed his head.

Dobby: Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, mam. Dobby has heard Dumbledore's powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, mam, there are powers Dumbledore doesn't… powers no decent wizard…

And before Taylor could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized their desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps. A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall.

Vernon: Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!

Amy: Quick! In the closet!

She stuffs Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging herself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.

Vernon: What — the — devil — are — you — doing? You've just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke… One more sound and you'll wish you'd never been born, girl!"

He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Amy let Dobby out of the closet.

Taylor: See what it's like here? See why I've got to go back to Hogwarts? It's the only place I've got—well, I think I've got friends.

Dobby: Friends who don't even write to the Potters?

Harry: I expect they've just been — wait a minute. How do you know our friends haven't been writing to us?"

Dobby shuffled his feet.

Dobby: The Potters mustn't be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best —"

Harry: Have you been stopping our letters?

Dobby: Dobby has them here, sir.

Stepping nimbly out of Harry's reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Harry could make out Hermione's neat writing, Ron's untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid. Amy could make out a few letters from Ginny.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.

Dobby: The Potters mustn't be angry… Dobby hoped… if the Potters thought their friends had forgotten him… the Potters might not want to go back to school, sir…

Harry wasn't listening. He made a grab for the letters, but

Dobby jumped out of reach.

Dobby: the Potters will have them, sir, if they give Dobby their word that they will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won't go back, sir!"

Harry: No, give us our friends' letters!

Dobby: Then the Potters leave Dobby no choice.

Before they could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs. Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry, Grace, Taylor, and Amy sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. They jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. From the dining room he heard Vernon talking

Vernon: Tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She's been dying to hear…

They Potters ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt their stomachs disappear.

Petunia's masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

Taylor: No. Please… they'll kill us…

Dobby: The Potters must say they're not going back to school…

Grace: Dobby…please…

Dobby: Say it, mam…

Amy: We can't…

Dobby gave them a tragic look.

Dobby: Then Dobby must do it, mam, for the Potters' own good.

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Taylor, Grace, Amy, and Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Petunia's pudding. At first, it looked as though Vernon would manage to gloss the whole thing over. ('Just our nephew and nieces—very disturbed—meeting strangers upsets them, so we kept them upstairs…') He shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised

The Potters he would flay him to within an inch of their life when the Masons had left, and handed them mops. Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Amy, Harry, Grace, and Taylor, still shaking, started scrubbing the kitchen clean. Vernon might still have been able to make his deal—if it hadn't been for the owl.

Petunia was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs. Mason's head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a banshee and ran from the house shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a joke. The Potters stood in the kitchen, clutching their mops for support, as Vernon advanced on them, a demonic glint in his tiny eyes.

Vernon: Read it! Go on—read it!

Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.

 _Dear Mr. H. Potter, Miss. T. Potter, and Miss. G. Potter,_

 _We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine. As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spell work on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C). We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy._

 _Enjoy your holidays!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Mafalda Hopkirk_

 _Improper use of magic office_

 _Ministry of Magic_

Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.

Vernon: You didn't tell us you weren't allowed to use magic outside school. Forgot to mention it… Slipped your mind, I dare say… Well, I've got news for you, kids… I'm locking you up… You're never going back to that school… never… and if you try and magic yourself out—they'll expel you!

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Amy, Taylor, Grace, and Harry back upstairs. Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Amy, Harry, Grace, and Taylor's window. He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let the four out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, they were locked in their room around the clock.

Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign of relenting, and the four couldn't see any way out of his situation. They lay on their beds watching the sun sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered miserably what was going to happen to them. What was the good of magicking themselves out of their room if

Hogwarts would expel them for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now that the Dursleys knew they weren't going to wake up as fruit bats, he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might have saved Harry from horrible happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things were going, he'd probably starve to death anyway. The cat-flap rattled and Petunia's hand appeared, pushing four bowls of canned soup into the room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger, jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone cold, but he drank half of it in one gulp. The girls made their way to the soup. Then they crossed the room to their owls' cages and tipped the soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into their empty food trays. They ruffled their feathers and gave them a look of deep disgust.

Taylor: It's no good turning your beaks up at it—that's all we've got.

She put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than she had been before the soup. Supposing they were still alive in another four weeks, what would happen if they didn't turn up at Hogwarts? Would someone be sent to see why he hadn't come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let him go?

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable questions, the four fell into an uneasy sleep. They dreamed that they were on show in a zoo, with a card reading underage wizard and witches attached to their cage. People goggled through the bars at them, as they lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. They saw Dobby's face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help,

Dobby: The Potters are safe there!

Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at him.

Harry: Stop it. Leave me alone… cut it out… I'm trying to sleep…

They opened their eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the window. And someone was goggling through the bars at them: a freckle-faced, red-haired, long-nosed someone. Ron Weasley was outside the four's window.


	3. The Burrow

Harry: Ron!

Harry, Grace, Taylor, and Amy creep to the window and push it up so they could talk through the bars.

Taylor: Ron, how did you—What the?

Their mouths fell open as the full impact of what they were seeing hit them. Ron was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in midair. Grinning at the four, next to him was Fred and from the front seats was George and Charlie, Ron's elder brothers.

George: All right, you four?

Ron: What's been going on? Why haven't you been answering my letters? I've asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad came home and said you'd got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles…

Grace: It wasn't us—and how did he know?

Ron: He works for the Ministry. You know we're not supposed to do spells outside school.

Harry: You should talk.

Ron: Oh, this doesn't count. We're only borrowing this. It's Dad's, we didn't enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with.

Grace: I told you, we didn't—but it'll take too long to explain now—look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked us up and won't let us come back, and obviously we can't magic ourselves out, because the Ministry will think that's the second spell we've done in three days, so…

Ron: Stop gibbering. We've come to take you home with us.

Amy: But you can't magic us out either

Ron: We don't need to. You forget who I've got with me.

Fred: Tie that around the bars

He throws the end of a rope to Harry.

Taylor: If the Dursleys wake up, we're dead,"

As Harry tied the rope tightly around a bar and Charlie revved up the car.

Fred: Don't worry and stand back.

The four moved back into the shadows next to their owls, who seemed to have realized how important this was and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as

Fred drove straight up in the air. The four ran back to the window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car. Harry listened anxiously, but there was no sound from the Dursleys' bedroom. When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron, Fred reversed as close as possible to the four's window. '

Ron: Get in.

Grace: But all our Hogwarts stuff-our wands-Harry's broomstick…

Ron: Where is it?

Harry: Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and we can't get out of this room.

George: No problem. Out of the way, you four.

Fred and George climbed catlike through the window into the four's room. You had to hand it to them, thought Grace, as George took an ordinary hairpin from his pocket and started to pick the lock.

Fred: A lot of wizards think it's a waste of time, knowing this sort of Muggle trick, but we feel they're skills worth learning, even if they are a bit slow.

There was a small click and the door swung open.

George: So — we'll get your trunk — you grab anything you need from your room and hand it out to Ron

Amy: Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks.

The twins disappeared onto the dark landing. Harry, Grace, Amy, and Taylor dashed around their room, collecting their things and passing them out of the window to Ron. Amy got into the car. Then Harry, Taylor, and Grace went to help Fred and George heave their trunks up the stairs. Grace heard Vernon cough.

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then carried the trunk through the four's room to the open window. Fred climbed back into the car to pull with Amy, Ron, and Charlie, and Taylor, Grace, Fred, Harry, and George pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, each trunk slid through the window. Vernon coughed again.

Fred: A bit more. One good push.

Harry and George threw their shoulders against the last trunk and it slid out of the window into the back seat of the car.

George: Okay, let's go.

Taylor and Grace got into he car. But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden loud screech from behind him, followed immediately by the thunder of Vernon's voice.

Vernon: THAT RUDDY OWL!

Harry: I've forgotten Hedwig!

Harry tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on — he snatched up Hedwig's cage, dashed to the window, and passed it out to Ron. He was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door—and it crashed open. For a split second, Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.

Charlie, Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry's arms and pulled as hard as they could.

Vernon: Petunia! He's getting away! HE'S GETTING AWAY!"

But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry's leg slid out of Vernon's grasp — Harry was in the car — he'd slammed the door shut —

Ron: Put your foot down, Charlie!

The Potters couldn't believe it — they were free. They rolled down the window, the night air whipping their hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of the Potters' window.

Taylor: See you next summer!

The Weasleys roared with laughter and Taylor settled back in her seat, grinning from ear to ear.

Grace: Let the owls out. They can fly behind us. They haven't had a chance to stretch their wings for ages."

George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment later, the owls soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them.

Ron: So—what's the story, you four? What's been happening?

Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he'd given the four and the fiasco of the violet pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when he had finished.

Fred: Very fishy.

George: Definitely dodgy. So he wouldn't even tell you who's supposed to be plotting all this stuff?

Amy: I don't think he could. Harry told you, every time he got close to letting something slip; he started banging his head against the wall.

He saw Charlie, Fred, and George look at each other.

Taylor: What, you think he was lying to us?

Charlie: Well, put it this way — house-elves have got powerful magic of their own, but they can't usually use it without their master's permission. I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back to Hogwarts. Someone's idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?

Grace, Taylor, Harry and Ron: Yes.

Grace: Draco Malfoy. He hates us.

Amy: Who?

George: Draco Malfoy? Not Lucius Malfoy's son?"

Harry: Must be, it's not a very common name, is it? Why?

George: I've heard Dad talking about him. He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.

Fred: And when You-Know-Who disappeared. Lucius Malfoy came back saying he'd never meant any of it. Load of dung—Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who's inner circle.

Harry, Taylor, and Grace had heard these rumors about Malfoy's family before, and they didn't surprise them at all. Malfoy made Dudley Dursley look like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy.

Taylor: I don't know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf.

Charlie: Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they'll be rich.

George: Yeah, Mum's always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing.

Fred: But all we've got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and places like that; you wouldn't catch one in our house…

Harry, Taylor, and Grace were silent. Judging by the fact that Draco Malfoy usually had the best of everything, his family was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see Malfoy strutting around a large manor house. Sending the family servant to stop them from going back to Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing Malfoy would do. Had they been stupid to take Dobby seriously?

Ron: I'm glad we came to get you, anyway. I was getting really worried when you didn't answer any of my letters. Ginny was getting really upset when Ay didn't answer to her letters. I thought it was Errol's fault at first…

Amy: Who's Errol?"

Ron: Our owl. He's ancient. It wouldn't be the first time he'd collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes…

Harry: Who?

Fred: The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he started Hogwarts.

Ron: But Percy wouldn't lend him to me. Said he needed him.

Charlie: Percy's been acting very oddly this summer.

And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room… I mean, there's only so many times you can play with an owl…

Fred: You're driving too far west, Charlie.

He points at a compass on the dashboard. Charlie twiddled the steering wheel.

Grace: So, does your dad know you've got the car?

Ron: Er, no, he had to work tonight. Hopefully we'll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it.

Taylor: What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic, anyway?

Ron: He works in the most boring department. The

Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.

Amy: The what?

Charlie: It's all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare — Dad was working overtime for weeks.

Taylor: What happened?

Fred: The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place and one man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was going frantic—it's only him and an old warlock called Perkins in the office — and they had to do Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up…

Harry: But your dad—this car…

Charlie: Yeah, Dad's crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed is full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he'd have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad.

George: That's the main road. We'll be there in ten minutes… Just as well, it's getting light…

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east. Charlie brought the car lower, and the four saw a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.

Fred: We're a little way outside the village of Ottery St.

Catchpole.

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.

Charlie: Touchdown!

Charlie lowered the car with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry, Grace, and Taylor looked out for the first time at Ron's house. While Amy just smiled. It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by magic (which, Grace, Taylor, and Harry reminded themselves, it probably was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, "The Burrow'. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron.

Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.

Ron: It's not much.

Harry: It's wonderful.

They got out of the car.

Fred: Now, we'll go upstairs really quietly, and wait for

Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going, 'Mum, look who turned up in the night!' and she'll be all pleased to see Harry, Grace, Taylor, and Amy and no one need ever know we flew the car.

Ron: Right. Taylor, Grace, and Amy you can sleep in Ginny's room. Come on, Harry, I sleep at the — at the top…

Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The other six wheeled around. Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

Fred: Ah!

George: Oh, dear.

Charlie; Just great.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket.

Mrs. Weasley: So…

George: Morning, Mum.

He said it in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

Mrs. Weasley: Have you any idea how worried I've been?

Charlie: Sorry Mum, but see, we had to…

All four of Mrs. Weasley's sons were taller than she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

Mrs. Weasley: Beds empty! No note! Car gone—could have crashed—out of my mind with worry—did you care? Never, as long as I've lived—you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Percy…

Fred: Perfect Percy.

Mrs. Weasley: YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY'S BOOK! You could have died, you could have been seen, and you could have lost your father his job…

It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on the Potters, who backed away.

Mrs. Weasley: I'm very pleased to see you four. Come in and have some breakfast.

She turned and walked back into the house and the four, after nervous glances at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her.

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Harry, Grace, and Taylor sat down on the edge of their seats, looking around. They had never been in a wizard house before. Amy was used to it after spending almost a year at this house. The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like "Time to make tea", "Time to feed the chickens", and "You're late". Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like "Charm Your Own Cheese", "Enchantment in Baking", and "One Minute Feasts—It's Magic!" And unless their ears were deceiving them, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was

'Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck.' Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like

Mrs. Weasley: Don't know what you were thinking of, never would have believed it. I don't blame you, dears.

Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we'd come and get you ourselves if you hadn't written back to Ron and Ginny by Friday. But really flying an illegal car halfway across the country—anyone could have seen you…

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.

Fred: It was cloudy, Mum!

Mrs. Weasley: You keep your mouth closed while you're eating!

George: They were starving him, Mum!

Mrs. Weasley: And you!

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again.

Amy: GINNY!

Amy ran out of the kitchen and went to find Ginny.

Ron: Ginny. My sister. She's been talking about you all summer."

Charlie: Yeah, she'll be wanting your autograph, you three.

Fred: Blimey, I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed and…

Mrs. Weasley: You will not. It's your own fault you've been up all night. You're going to de-gnome the garden for me; they're getting completely out of hand again…

Fred: Oh, Mum…

Mrs. Weasley: And you three.

She told Charlie, Ron, and George

Mrs. Weasley: You can go up to bed, dears. You didn't ask them to fly that wretched car…

But Harry, who felt wide awake,

Harry: I'll help Ron. I've never seen a de-gnoming. The girls can go to bed.

Taylor: Yeah, we'll head up and find Ginny and Amy. Call us when you're done.

Taylor and Grace headed up the stairs.

Mrs. Weasley: That's very sweet of you, Harry, but it's dull work. Now, let's see what Lockhart's got to say on the subject…

She pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece.

George groaned.

Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden…

Harry looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley's book. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words 'Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests'. There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. As always in the wizarding world, the photograph was moving; the wizard, who Harry supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him.

Mrs. Weasley: Oh, he is marvelous. He knows his household pests, all right; it's a wonderful book…

Charlie: Mum fancies him.

Mrs. Weasley: Don't be so ridiculous, Charlie. All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there's a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it.

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched outside with Harry behind them. The garden was large, and in Harry's eyes, exactly what a garden should be. The Dursleys wouldn't have liked it—there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting—but there were gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs.

Harry: Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know.

Ron: Yeah, I've seen those things they think are gnomes, like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods…

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Ron straightened up.

Ron: This is a gnome

Gnome: Gerroff me! Gerroff me!

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, baldhead exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm's length as it kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down.

Ron: This is what you have to do.

He raised the gnome above his head and started to swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the shocked look on Harry's face, Ron added

Ron: It doesn't hurt them—you've just got to make them really dizzy so they can't find their way back to the gnome holes.

He let go of the gnome's ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a thud in the field over the hedge.

Charlie: Pitiful. I bet I can get mine beyond that stump.

Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. He decided just to drop the first one he caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Harry's finger and he had a hard job shaking it off— until…

Fred: Wow, Harry—that must've been fifty feet.

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

George: See, they're not too bright. The moment they know the de-gnoming's going on they storm up to have a look. You'd think they'd have learned by now just to stay put.

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.

Ron: They'll be back. They love it here… Dad's too soft with them; he thinks they're funny.

Just then, the front door slammed.

George: He's back! Dad's home!"

They hurried through the garden and back into the house. Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as any of his children's. He was wearing long green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.

Mr. Weasley: What a night. Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned…

Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.

Fred: Find anything, Dad?

Mr. Weasley: All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle. There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn't my department, though. Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some extremely odd ferrets, but that's the Committee on Experimental Charms, thank goodness…

George: Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?

Mr. Weasley: Just Muggle-baiting. Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it… Of course, it's very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking — they'll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them; they'll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it's staring them in the face… But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn't believe…

Mrs. Weasley: LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?

Mr. Weasley: C-cars, Molly, dear?

Mrs. Weasley: Yes, Arthur, cars. Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it fly.

Mr. Weasley blinked.

Mr. Weasley: Well, dear, I think you'll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth… There's a loophole in the law, you'll find… As long as he wasn't intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly wouldn't…

Mrs. Weasley: Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law! Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry, Amy, Taylor, and Grace arrived this morning in the car you weren't intending to fly!"

Mr. Weasley: Amy? As in Amy Potter? Ginny's best friend? Whose Harry, Grace, and Taylor?

He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped.

Mr. Weasley: Good lord, is it Harry Potter? And I'm assuming that Taylor and Grace are your sisters. Very pleased to meet you, Ron's told us so much about…

Mrs. Weasley: Your sons flew that car to the Potters' house and back last night! What have you got to say about that, eh?

Mr. Weasley: Did you really? Did it go all right? I — I mean… that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed.

Ron: Let's leave them to it. Come on, I'll show you my bedroom. Then we can go and find Grace and Taylor.

They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it closed with a snap.

Ron: Ginny. You don't know how weird it is for her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally… They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling paint and a small plaque on it, saying "Ronald's room".

Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ron's room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically.

Harry: Your Quidditch team?

Ron: The Chudley Cannons. Ninth in the league.

Ron's school spell books were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to feature "The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle". Ron's magic wand was lying on top of a fish tank full of frogspawn on the windowsill, next to his fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of sun.

Harry stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny window. In the field far below he could see a gang of gnomes sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys' hedge. Then he turned to look at Ron, who was watching him almost nervously, as though waiting for his opinion.

Ron: It's a bit small. Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I'm right underneath the ghoul in the attic; he's always banging on the pipes and groaning…

Harry: This is the best house I've ever been in.

Ron's ears went pink.

Harry: Now lets go find Taylor and Grace. They'll be wondering what's taking us so long.


	4. At Fourish and Blotts

Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from life on Privet Drive. The Dursleys liked everything neat and ordered; the Weasleys' house burst with the strange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the first time he looked in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it shouted, "Tuck your shirt in, scruffy!" The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Fred and George's bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What Amy, Harry, Grace, and Taylor found most unusual about life at the Weasleys', however, wasn't the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like them.

Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of Harry's socks and tried to force Taylor, Grace, Harry, and Amy to eat fourth helpings at every meal. Mr. Weasley liked Harry, Grace, and Taylor to sit next to him at the dinner table so that he could bombard them with questions about life with Muggles, asking them to explain how things like plugs and the postal service worked.

Mr. Weasley: Fascinating! Ingenious, really, how many ways Muggles have found of getting along without magic. Taylor, Grace, Amy, and Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after they had arrived at the Burrow. Harry and Ron went down to

breakfast to find Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Taylor, Grace, Amy, and Ginny already sitting at the kitchen table. The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally knocked her porridge bowl to the floor with a loud clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to knocking things over whenever Harry entered a room. She dived under the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with her face glowing like the setting sun. Pretending he hadn't noticed this, Harry sat down and took the toast Mrs.

Weasley offered him.

Mr. Weasley: Letters from school.

Mr. Weasley, passed Harry and Ron identical envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink.

Taylor: We wanted to wait for you two to come down so we can open our letters together.

Mr. Weasley: Dumbledore already knows you four are here, Harry—doesn't miss a trick, that man. You four have got them, too.

Bill, Charlie, Fred and George ambled in, still in their pajamas. For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters.

Two pins came out of Charlie's envelope

Charlie: Hey look I'm a prefect and Quidditch captain!

Mrs. Weasley: Oh congratulations Charlie!

Bill: Join the club of Prefects Charlie.

Amy and Ginny's letters told them the list of what they need for the school year.

Harry, Ron, Grace, and Taylor's told them to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King's Cross Station on September first. There was also a list of the new books they'd need for the coming year.

Second-year students will require:

 _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_

by Miranda Goshawk

 _Break with a Banshee_

by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Gadding with Ghouls_

by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Holidays with Hags_

by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Travels with Trolls_

by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Voyages with Vampires_

by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Wanderings with Werewolves_

by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Year with the Yeti_

by Gilderoy Lockhart

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Taylor's.

Fred: You've been told to get all Lockhart's books, too! The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan — bet it's a witch.

At this point, Fred caught his mother's eye and quickly busied himself with the marmalade.

Bill: That lot won't come cheap. Lockhart's books are really expensive…

Mrs. Weasley: Well, we'll manage. I expect we'll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny's things secondhand."

Harry: Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?

She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair,

and put her elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no one saw this except Harry.

Grace: You didn't know? Well she's a few months younger than Amy. So of course she's starts Hogwarts this year.

Just then Ron's elder brother Percy walked in. He

was already dressed.

Percy: Morning, all. Lovely day.

He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath him a molting, gray feather duster — at least, that was what Harry, Grace, Amy, and Taylor thought it was, until

they saw that it was breathing.

Ron: Errol!

Ron took the limp owl from Percy and extracted a letter from under its wing.

Ron: Finally — he's got Hermione's answer. I wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you four from the Dursleys.

He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining board instead. Then he ripped open Hermione's letter and read it out loud:

Ron: 'Dear Ron, Taylor, Grace, and Harry if you're there,

'I hope everything went all right and that the Potters are okay and that you didn't do anything illegal to get them out, Ron, because that would get them into trouble, too. I've been really worried and if they are all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl, because I think another delivery might finish your one off. 'I'm very busy with schoolwork, of course'-How can she be? We're on vacation!-'and we're going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don't we meet in Diagon Alley? Let me know what's happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione.'

Mrs. Weasley: Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too. What're you all up to today?"

Charlie, Bill, Taylor, Grace, Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that they could practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn't fly too high. They couldn't use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. Everyone found out that Taylor and Grace are great players. Charlie told them to try out for the team as chasers. They said they would. They took turns riding Harry's Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron's old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies. Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Harry, Grace, and Taylor had only seen Percy at mealtimes so far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.

Fred: Wish I knew what he was up to. He's not himself. His exam results came the day before you did; all O's

and he hardly gloated at all.

The walked in silence when suddenly Bill broke the silence.

Bill: Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year. Seven sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything…

Harry, Taylor, and Grace said nothing. They felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that their parents had left them. Of course, it was only in the Wizarding World that they had money; you couldn't use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops. They had never mentioned their Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; they didn't think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold. Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs. Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.

Mrs. Weasley: We're running low, Arthur. We'll have to buy some more today… Ah well, guests first! After you four!

She offered Grace the flowerpot.

Grace stared at them all watching her.

Grace: W-what am I supposed to do?

Ron: They've never traveled by Floo powder. Sorry,

Grace, I forgot.

Mr. Weasley: Never? But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?"

Taylor: We went on the Underground…

Mr. Weasley: Really? Were there escapators? How exactly…

Mrs. Weasley: Not now, Arthur. Floo powder is a lot quicker, dears, but goodness me, if you've never used it before…

Fred: They'll be all right, Mum. Watch us first.

He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames. With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who stepped right into it,

Fred: Diagon Alley!

He vanished.

Mrs. Weasley: You must speak clearly, dears.

George dipped his hand into the flowerpot.

Mrs. Weasley: And be sure to get out at the right grate…

Harry: The right what?

The fire roared and whipped George out of sight, too.

Mrs. Weasley: Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you've spoken clearly…

Mr. Weasley: They'll be fine, Molly, don't fuss.

Mrs. Weasley: But, dear, if they got lost, how would we ever explain to their aunt and uncle?

Amy: They wouldn't mind. Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if we got lost up a chimney, don't worry about that…

Mrs. Weasley: Well . . . all right . . . you go after Arthur. Now, when you get into the fire, say where you're going…

Ron: And keep your elbows tucked in.

Mrs. Weasley: And your eyes shut. The soot…

Ron: Don't fidget. Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace…

Mrs. Weasley: But don't panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and George.

Taylor: Amy, let's go together.

Amy nodded.

Taylor took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames. With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Taylor and Amy, who stepped right into it,

Taylor: Diagon Alley!

They vanished.

Grace sensing Harry's uneasiness took his hand.

Grace: Why don't we go together?

Harry nodded. Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. They took deep breaths, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; Harry opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash.

Harry: D-Dia-gon Alley.

It felt as though they were being sucked down a giant drain. They seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in their ears was deafening—they tried to keep their eyes open but the whirl of green flames made them feel sick—something hard knocked their elbows and they tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning, now it felt as though cold hands were slapping their faces—Harry squinted through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond. Grace saw fireplaces and other rooms; their bacon sandwiches were churning inside them—Harry closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then, they fell, face forward, onto cold stone and Harry felt the bridge of his glasses snap. Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, they got gingerly to their feet, Harry holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. They were quite alone, but where they were, they had no idea. All they could tell was that they were standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard's shop—but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list. A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry and Grace could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley. The sooner they got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry and Grace made their way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before they'd got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the other side of the glass—and one of them was the very last person Harry and Grace wanted to meet when they were lost, covered in soot, and Harry wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy. Harry and Grace looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to their left; they shot inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped into the shop. The man who followed could only be Draco's father. He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son.

Mr. Malfoy: Touch nothing, Draco.

Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye.

Draco: I thought you were going to buy me a present.

Mr. Malfoy: I said I would buy you a racing broom.

Draco: What's the good of that if I'm not on the House team? Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He's not even that good, it's just because he's famous . . . famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead…

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.

Draco: …everyone thinks they're so smart, wonderful Potters and Harry with his scar and his broomstick…

Mr. Malfoy: You have told me this at least a dozen times already. And I would remind you that it is not prudent to appear less than fond of the Potters, not when most of our kind regards them as the heroes who made the Dark Lord disappear—ah, Mr. Borgin.

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.

Mr. Borgin: Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again. Delighted—and young Master Malfoy, too—charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced…

Mr. Malfoy: I'm not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling.

Mr. Borgin: Selling?

Mr. Malfoy: You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids. I have a few—ah—items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.

Mr. Malfoy: The Ministry wouldn't presume to trouble you, sir, surely?

Mr. Borgin: I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it…

Harry and Grace felt a hot surge of anger.

Mr. Malfoy: …and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear…

Mr. Borgin: I understand, sir, of course. Let me see…

Draco: Can I have that?

Draco pointed at the withered hand on its cushion.

Mr. Borgin: Ah, the Hand of Glory! Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.

Mr. Malfoy: I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,"

Mr. Borgin: No offense, sir, no offense meant…

Mr. Malfoy: Though if his grades don't pick up, that may indeed be all he is fit for.

Draco: It's not my fault. The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger…

Mr. Malfoy: I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam.

Grace: Ha!

She is pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry.

Mr. Borgin: It's the same all over. Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere,

Mr. Malfoy: Not with me.

Mr. Borgin: No, sir, nor with me, sir.

Mr. Malfoy: In that case, perhaps we can return to my list. I am in something of a hurry, Borgin; I have important business elsewhere today.

They started to haggle. Grace and Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to their hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman's rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, "Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed—Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date".

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward — he stretched out his hand for the handle.

Mr. Malfoy: Done. Come, Draco.

Harry and Grace wiped their foreheads on their sleeves as Draco turned away.

Mr. Malfoy: Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I'll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.

The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner.

Mr. Borgin: Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven't sold me half of what's hidden in your manor.

Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harry and Grace waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as they could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door. Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared around. They had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one they'd just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads and, two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching them from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry and Grace set off, Harry, trying to hold his glasses on straight and hoping against hope they'd be able to find a way out of here. An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told them they were in Knockturn Alley. This didn't help, as Grace and Harry had never heard of such a place. They supposed Harry hadn't spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the Weasleys' fire. Trying to stay calm, they wondered what to do.

Witch: Not lost are you, my dears?

Harry and Grace backed away.

Grace: We're fine, thanks. We're just…

Hagrid: HARRY! GRACE! What d'yeh think yer doin' down there?"

Harry and Grace's hearts leapt. So did the witch and she cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes flashing over his great bristling beard.

Harry: Hagrid! We were lost; Floo powder…

Hagrid seized Harry and Grace by the scruff of their necks and pulled them away from the witch. Grace and Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble building in the distance — Gringotts Bank. Hagrid had steered them right into Diagon Alley.

Hagrid: Yer a mess!

He brushed soot off Harry and Grace so forcefully he nearly knocked them into a barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary.

Hagrid: Skulkin' around Knockturn Alley, I dunno, dodgy place, you two; don' want no one ter see yeh down there…

Grace: We realized that, Harry told you, we were lost — what were you doing down there, anyway?

Hagrid: I was lookin' fer a Flesh-Eatin' Slug Repellent.

Hagrid: They're ruinin' the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?

Harry: We're staying with the Weasleys but we got separated. We've got to go and find them.

They set off together down the street.

Hagrid: How come yeh never wrote back ter me?

Harry and Grace explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys.

Hagrid: Lousy Muggles. If I'd've known…

Hermione: Harry! Grace! Over here!"

Harry and Grace looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. She ran down to meet them, her bushy brown hair flying behind her. Grace gave her a hug.

Hermione: Where's Taylor and Amy? What happened to your glasses Harry? Hello, Hagrid—Oh, it's wonderful to see you three again—Are you coming into Gringotts?

Grace: As soon as we've found the Weasleys, Taylor and Amy.

Hagrid: Yeh won't have long ter wait.

Grace, Harry, and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the crowded street were Taylor, Amy, Bill, Charlie, Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley. Taylor and Amy tackled Harry and Grace in a hug. Then Taylor gave Hermione a hug.

Mr. Weasley: Harry, Grace. We hoped you'd only gone one grate too far. Molly's frantic—she's coming now.

Ron: Where did you come out?

Hagrid: Knockturn Alley.

Fred and George: Excellent!

Charlie: We've never been allowed in.

Hagrid: I should ruddy well think not.

Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just clinging onto the other.

Mrs. Weasley: Oh, Harry, Grace—oh, my dear—you could have been anywhere…

Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid hadn't managed to beat away. Mr. Weasley took Harry's glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and returned them, good as new.

Hagrid: Well, gotta be off. See yer at Hogwarts!

And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.

Harry: Guess who we saw in Borgin and Burkes? Malfoy and his father."

Mr. Weasley: Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?

Grace: No, he was selling…

Mr. Weasley: So he's worried. Oh, I'd love to get Lucius Malfoy for something.

Mrs. Weasley: You be careful, Arthur. That family's trouble. Don't go biting off more than you can chew…

Mr. Weasley: So you don't think I'm a match for Lucius Malfoy?

But the sight of Hermione's parents, who were standing nervously at the counter that ran all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione to introduce them, distracted him almost at once.

Mr. Weasley: But you're Muggles! We must have a drink! What's that you've got there? Oh, you're changing Muggle money. Molly, look!

Ron: Meet you back here.

Ron said to Hermione as the Weasleys and the Potters were led off to their underground vaults by another

Gringotts goblin. The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank's underground tunnels. The Potters enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the

Weasleys' vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than Grace and Harry had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. The Potters felt even worse when they reached their vault.

Taylor grabbed eight bags. And filled each bag up to the brim with coins. She then gave each bag to every one of the Weasleys. She stopped at Mrs. Weasley.

Taylor: Why don't you get Ginny a brand new wand, robes, and books?

Then she went back and the Potters filled up four bags with money for themselves.

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George had spotted their friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Bill had spotted his girlfriend, Fleur (A/N I know Fleur goes to another school but you'll understand later). Charlie saw some of his friends. Mrs. Weasley took Ginny and Amy to a robe shop. Mr. Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.

Mrs. Weasley: We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks," said Mrs. Weasley, setting off with Ginny and Amy.

Mrs. Weasley: And not one step down Knockturn Alley!

She shouted at the twins' retreating backs.

Taylor, Grace, Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the winding, cobbled street. Grace and Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment. In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who were stocking up on "Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks", and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy, deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book called "Prefects Who Gained Power".

Ron: A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers. That sounds fascinating. Percy you're not a prefect.

Percy: Not yet. Go away.

Ron: Course, he's very ambitious, Percy, he's got it all planned out… He wants to be Minister of Magic.

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. A large banner stretched across the upper windows proclaimed the reason for this:

'GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography "MAGICAL ME" today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.'

Grace: We can actually meet him!

Hermione: I mean, he's written almost the whole booklist!

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Weasley's age. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door.

Wizard: Calmly, please, ladies… Don't push, there… mind the books, now…

Taylor, Grace, Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells,

Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

Mrs. Weasley: Oh, there you are, good. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair.

Mrs. Weasley: We'll be able to see him in a minute.

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard's hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.

Photographer: Out of the way, there. This is for the Daily Prophet.

Ron: Big deal.

Ron rubbed his foot where the photographer had stepped on it.

Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron

and then he saw the Potters. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted

Lockhart: It can't be the Potters?

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Harry's arm, Harry pulled his siblings along with him. Lockhart pulled them to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Lockhart shook each of their

hands for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.

Lockhart: Nice big smile Potters. Together, you and I are worth the front page.

The Potters tried to sidle back over to the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around Grace and Taylor's shoulders and clamped them tightly to his side.

Lockhart: Ladies and gentlemen. What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time! When the young Potters here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, they only wanted to buy my autobiography — which I shall be happy to present them now, free of charge. They had no idea, that they would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, "Magical Me". Them and their schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!

The crowd cheered and clapped and the Potters found themselves being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, they managed to make their way out of the

limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was standing next to her new cauldron.

Harry: You have these

Harry tipped the books into the cauldron.

Harry: I'll buy my own…

Draco: Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potters? Famous Potters. Can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page."

Ginny: Leave them alone, they didn't want all that! said

Draco: Potters, you've got yourselves a protector!

Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart's books.

Ron: Oh, it's you. Bet you're surprised to see

Harry here, eh?

Draco: Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley. I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those."

Ron: Nope.

Ron said popping the 'p'

He dropped his books into the cauldron

Mr. Weasley: Ron! What are you doing? It's too crowded in here, let's go outside.

Mr. Malfoy: Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.

Mr. Weasley: Lucius.

Mr. Malfoy: Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. All those

raids… I hope they're paying you overtime?

He reached into Ginny's cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a copy of "A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration".

Mr. Malfoy: Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than Ginny.

Mr. Weasley: We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy.

Mr. Malfoy: Clearly,"

His pale eyes straying to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching apprehensively.

Mr. Malfoy: The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no lower…

There was a thud of metal as Ginny's cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spell books came thundering down on all their heads.

Bill, Charlie, Fred, and George: Get him, Dad!

Mrs. Weasley was shrieking

Mrs. Weasley: No, Arthur, no!

The crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over.

Assistant: Gentlemen, please — please!

Hagrid: Break it up, there, gents, break it up.

Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and an Encyclopedia of Toadstools had hit Mr. Malfoy in the eye. He was still holding Ginny's Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

Mr. Malfoy: Here, girl — take your book.

Pulling himself out of Hagrid's grip he beckoned to

Draco and swept from the shop.

Hagrid: Yeh should've ignored him, Arthur. Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy's worth listenin' ter — bad blood, that's what it is — come on now — let's get outta here.

The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them from leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid's waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury.

Mrs. Weasley: A fine example to set for your children… brawling in public.

But it was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where the Potters, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said good-bye to the Grangers, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Weasley started to ask them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley's face. Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his pocket, then Grace grabbed his hand before helping herself to Floo powder. It definitely wasn't their favorite way to travel.


	5. The Whomping Willow

The end of the summer vacation came too quickly for everyone's liking. The Potters were looking forward to getting back to Hogwarts, but their month at the Burrow had been the happiest of their life. It was difficult not to feel jealous of Ron and Ginny when they thought of the

Dursleys and the sort of welcome he could expect next time they turned up on Privet Drive. On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a sumptuous dinner that included all of the Potters' favorite things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle pudding. Fred and George rounded off the evening with a display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a last mug of hot chocolate and bed. It took a long while to get started next morning. They were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to have a great deal to do. Mrs. Weasley dashed about in a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed the yard carrying Ginny's trunk to the car. Grace couldn't see how thirteen people, eleven large trunks, four owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia. She had reckoned, of course, without the special features that Mr. Weasley had added.

Mr. Weasley: Not a word to Molly.

He opened the trunk and showed them how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily.

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley glanced into the two back rows, where Harry, Ron, Taylor, Grace were in a row with Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, and Percy behind them they were all sitting comfortably side by side

Mrs. Weasley: Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don't they?

She, Ginny, and Amy got into the front seat, which had been stretched so that it resembled a park bench.

Mrs. Weasley: I mean, you'd never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard, the Potters turning back for a last look at the house. They barely had time to wonder when he'd see it again when they were back—George had forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked that she'd left her diary. By the time she had clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running high.

Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his wife.

Mr. Weasley: Molly, dear…

Mrs. Weasley: No, Arthur.

Mr. Weasley: No one would see — this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I installed—that'd get us up in the air—then we fly above the clouds. We'd be there in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser.

Mrs. Weasley: I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight.

They reached King's Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mr. Weasley dashed across the road to get trolleys for their trunks and they all hurried into the station. Three of the Potters had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn't visible to the Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It didn't hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

Mrs. Weasley: Bill first

Mrs. Weasley looked nervously at the clock overhead, which showed they had only five minutes to disappear casually through the barrier. Bill strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. Weasley went

next; Charlie after. Percy after Charlie. Fred and George followed. Taylor went after them. Amy right behind her. Then Grace.

Mrs. Weasley: I'll take Ginny and you two come right after us.

Ron: Let's go together, we've only got a minute

Harry made sure that Hedwig's cage was safely wedged on top of his trunk and wheeled his trolley around to face the barrier. He felt perfectly confident; this wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they broke into a run and—CRASH. Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; Ron's trunk fell off with a loud thump, Harry was knocked off his feet, and Hedwig's cage bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking indignantly; people all around them stared

Guard: What in blazes d'you think you're doing?

Harry: Lost control of the trolley

Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd.

Harry: Why can't we get through?

Ron: I dunno.

Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still watching them.

Ron: We're going to miss the train. I don't understand

why the gateway's sealed itself…

Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ten seconds . . . nine seconds . . . He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the barrier and pushed with all his might. The metal remained solid. Three seconds . . . two seconds . . . one second . . .

Ron: It's gone. The train's left. What if Mum and Dad can't get back through to us? Have you got any Muggle money?"

Harry gave a hollow laugh.

Ron: The Dursleys haven't given my sisters and I pocket money for about six years.

Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier.

Ron: Can't hear a thing," he said tensely. "What're we going to do? I don't know how long it'll take Mum and Dad to get back to us.

They looked around. People were still watching them, mainly because of Hedwig's continuing screeches.

Harry: I think we'd better go and wait by the car. We're attracting too much atten…

Ron: Harry! The car!

Harry: What about it?"

Ron: We can fly the car to Hogwarts!

Harry: But I thought…

Ron: We're stuck, right? And we've got to get to school, haven't we? And even underage wizards are allowed to use magic if it's a real emergency, section nineteen or something of the Restriction of Thingy…

Harry: But your mum and dad… How will they get home?

Ron: They don't need the car! They know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and reappear at home!

They only bother with Floo powder and the car because we're all underage and we're not allowed to Apparate yet.

Harry's feeling of panic turned suddenly to excitement.

Harry: Can you fly it?

Ron: No problem. C'mon, let's go. If we hurry we'll be able to follow the Hogwarts Express.

And they marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side road where the old Ford Anglia was parked. Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of taps from his wand. They heaved their luggage back in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into the front.

Ron: Check that no one's watching.

Harry: Okay.

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around them vanished — and so did they. Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.

Ron: Let's go.

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

 **On the train:**

Taylor, Grace, Hermione, Amy, and Ginny all found a compartment that was empty.

Taylor: I wonder where Ron and Harry are I didn't see them on the platform.

Ginny: Yeah, Mum was freaking out.

Hermione: Ginny, do you think any of your brothers might have seen them?

Ginny: Maybe lets go ask them.

Taylor: Lets go then.

Ginny: WAIT! Charlie and Bill are prefects they are in a meeting right now.

Grace: Ok then. Hermione and I will go first and ask Percy. Then when we come back Taylor and Ginny will go ask Fred and George.

Taylor: Ok.

Grace and Hermione left the compartment.

Amy: I hope they're okay.

Taylor: Me too.

 **Back with Harry and Ron:**

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry, and Ron reappeared.

Ron: Uh-oh. It's faulty…

Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again.

Ron: Hold on!

He slammed his foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything

turned dull and foggy.

Harry: Now what?

Ron: We need to see the train to know what direction to go in. Dip back down again—quickly…

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

Harry: I can see it! Right ahead — there!

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake.

Ron: Due north. Okay, we'll just have to check on it every half hour or so — hold on —"

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight. It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

Ron: All we've got to worry about now are airplanes.

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they couldn't stop. It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This, thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Fred's and George's jealous faces when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle. They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view. London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches. Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to admit that some of the fun was wearing off. Why hadn't they been able to get onto platform nine and three-quarters?

Ron: Can't be much further, can it? Ready for another check on the train?"

It was still right below them. Then the engine began to whine. Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

Ron: It's probably just tired. It's never been this far before.

And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker.

Ron: Not far.

Harry: There! Straight ahead!

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle. But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.

Ron: Come on," Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a little shake, nearly there, come on…

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood. Harry found himself gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they flew toward the lake.

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his window, Harry saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Ron's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again.

Ron: Come on.

They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead — Ron put his foot down. There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely.

 **On the train:**

Taylor: When I see them they are so dead!

Grace: Calm down Taylor.

Taylor: How can I calm down my brother is not on this train. Percy, Fred, and George haven't seen them and Fred and George know everyone on this train.

Hermione: Well all we can do is hope that they are alright.

 **Back with Harry and Ron:**

Ron: Uh-oh.

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle wall.

Ron: Noooooo!

Ron swung the steering wheel around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time. Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his back pocket —

Ron: STOP! STOP!

Harry: WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!

But it was too late—CRUNCH. With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Harry's head where he had hit the windshield; and to his right, Ron let out a low, despairing groan.

Harry: Are you okay?

Ron: My wand. Look at my wand.

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters. Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they'd be able to mend it up at the school, but he never even got started. At that very

moment, something hit his side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof.

Ron: What's happen?

Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and Harry looked around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach.

Ron: Aaargh! Run for it! We're done for!"

But suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the engine had restarted.

Harry: Reverse!

The car shot backward.

Ron: That was close. Well done, car.

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harry felt his seat tip sideways: next thing he knew he was sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told him that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig's cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the castle without a backward look. Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

Ron: Come back! Dad'll kill me! Can you believe our luck? Of all the trees we could've hit, we had to get one that hits back.

Harry: Come on, we'd better get up to the school…

It wasn't at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

Ron: I think the feast's already started. Hey — Harry — come and look — it's the Sorting!"

Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered in at the Great Hall. Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Harry saw a long line of scared-looking first years filing into the Hall. Ginny and Amy was among them, easily visible because of their vivid red hair. Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers. Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin). Harry's eyes wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet.

Harry: Hang on. There's an empty chair at the staff table… Where's Snape?"

Ron: Maybe he's ill!

Harry: Maybe he's left, because he missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again!

Ron: Or he might have been sacked! I mean, everyone hates him…

Snape: Or maybe, he's waiting to hear why you two didn't arrive on the school train.

Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape. He was smiling in a way that told Harry he and Ron were in very deep trouble.

Snape: Follow me.

Snape: You'd better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you're bleeding.

Ron: Not much. Professor, we want to watch our sisters get Sorted…

Snape: The Sorting Ceremony is over. Your sisters are also in Gryffindor.

Harry: Oh, good…

Snape: You will go straight up to your dormitory. I must return to the feast.

When the door had closed behind him, they rose and left the office, treading the familiar path to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast was over. They walked past muttering portraits and creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage where the secret entrance to

Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

Fat Lady: Password?

Harry: Er...

They didn't know the new year's password, not having met a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them and turned to see Hermione and Grace dashing toward them.

Hermione: There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors—someone said you'd been expelled for crashing a flying car…

Harry: Well, we haven't been expelled.

Grace: You're not telling us you did fly here?

Ron: Skip the lecture, and tell us the new password.

Hermione: It's 'wattlebird,' but that's not the point —"

Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the circular common room, standing on the lopsided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull Harry and Ron inside, leaving Hermione and Grace to scramble in after them.

Lee: Brilliant! Inspired! What an entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping Willow, people'll be talking about that one for years…

Fred and George pushed their way to the front of the

Crowd.

Fred and George: Why couldn't we've come in the car, eh?

Charlie: Yeah it would've been so much fun. Much more fun than patrolling the stupid train.

Taylor: Next time bring us.

Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly, but Harry could see one person who didn't look happy at all. Percy was visible over the heads of some excited first years, and he seemed to be trying to get near enough to start telling them off. Harry nudged Ron in the ribs and nodded in Percy's direction. Ron got the point at once.

Ron: Got to get upstairs — bit tired…

The two of them started pushing their way toward the door on the other side of the room, which led to a spiral staircase and the dormitories.

Harry: Night.

Harry said this to Hermione and Grace, who were wearing scowls just like Percy's.

They managed to get to the other side of the common room, still having their backs slapped, and gained the peace of the staircase. They hurried up it, right to the top, and at last reached the door of their old dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying second years. They entered the familiar, circular room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet and its high, narrow windows. Their trunks had been brought up for them and stood at the ends of their beds.

Ron grinned guiltily at Harry.

Ron: I know I shouldn't've enjoyed that or anything, but…

The dormitory door flew open and in came the other second year Gryffindor boys, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom.

Seamus: Unbelievable!

Dean: Cool.

Neville: Amazing.

Harry couldn't help it. He grinned, too.


	6. Gilderoy Lockhart

The next day, however, Harry barely grinned once. Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden with food. Harry and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Amy and Ginny and across from Grace, Taylor, and Hermione, Hermione and Grace had their copies of "Voyages with Vampires" propped open against a milk jug.

Neville: Mail's due any minute — I think Gran's sending a few things I forgot.

Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville's head and, a second later, something large and gray fell into

Hermione's jug, spraying them all with milk and feathers.

Ron: Errol!

Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak.

Ron: Oh, no...

Grace: It's all right, he's still alive.

Ron: It's not that — it's that.

Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to Harry, Amy, and Taylor, but Ron and Neville were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode.

Taylor: What's the matter?

Ron: She's — she's sent me a Howler.

Neville: You'd better open it, Ron. It'll be worse if you don't. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and it was horrible.

Harry: What's a Howler?

But Ron's whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to smoke at the corners.

Neville: Open it. It'll all be over in a few minutes.

Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol's beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his fingers in his ears. A split second later, Harry knew why. He thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.

Mrs. Weasley: …STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE…

Mrs. Weasley's yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen.

Mrs. Weasley: …LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED…

Harry had been wondering when his name was going to crop up. He tried very hard to look as though he couldn't hear the voice that was making his eardrums throb.

Mrs. Weasley: …ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED—YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.

A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron's hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Harry and Ron sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.

Grace and Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top of Ron's head.

Grace: Well, I don't know what you expected, Ron, but you…

Ron: Don't tell me I deserved it.

Harry pushed his porridge away. His insides were burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for him over the summer… But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules. Harry took his and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first. Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing: Grace and Hermione seemed to think Harry and Ron had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Taylor, Grace, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart. Professor

Sprout's arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings.

Lockhart: Oh, hello there! Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels…

Sprout: Greenhouse three today, chaps!

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. Harry was about to follow Taylor, Grace, Ron, and Hermione inside when Lockhart's hand shot out.

Lockhart: Harry! I've been wanting a word; you don't mind if he's a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout? That's the ticket. Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry. When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself.

Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was about to say so when Lockhart went on

Lockhart: Don't know when I've been more shocked. Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry. Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I? Gave you the bug. You and your sisters got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn't wait to do it again.

Harry: Oh, no, Professor, see…

Lockhart: Harry, Harry, Harry. I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you've had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head — but see here, young man, you can't start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you're older. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking! 'It's all right for him, he's an internationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I'd say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! I know, I know — it's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most Charming-Smile

Award five times in a row, as I have — but it's a start, Harry, it's a start.

He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened the door and slid inside. Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored earmuffs were lying on the bench. When Harry had taken his place between Ron and Taylor Professor Sprout spoke

Sprout: We'll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?

To nobody's surprise, Hermione and Grace's hands were first into the air.

Hermione: Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative…

Grace: …It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state.

Sprout: Excellent. Twenty points to Gryffindor. The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?

Hermione and Grace's hands shot up again.

Grace: The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it.

Sprout: Precisely. Take another ten points. Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young. Everyone take a pair of earmuffs. When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered. When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right — earmuffs on.

Harry, Grace, Taylor, Hermione, and Ron snapped the earmuffs over their ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Harry and Taylor let out gasps of surprise that no one could hear. Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He was bawling at the top of his lungs. Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

Sprout: As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet. However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here — compost in the sacks over there — and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it's teething.

Grace and Hermione went off to find a group while Harry, Ron, and Taylor were joined at their tray by a

curly-haired Hufflepuff boy that they knew by sight but had never spoken to.

Justin: Justin Finch-Fletchley. Know who you are, of course, the famous Harry Potter… And you're the famous Taylor Potter — always making everyone smile and you're Ron Weasley. Wasn't that your flying car?

Ron didn't smile. The Howler was obviously still on his mind.

Justin: That Lockhart's something, isn't he? Awfully brave chap. Have you read his books? I'd have died of fear if a werewolf had cornered me in a telephone booth, but he stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic. My name was down for Eton, you know. I can't tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart's books I think she's begun to see how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family…

After that they didn't have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes didn't like coming out of the earth, but didn't seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Taylor didn't have that hard of a time but it was still difficult for her, Harry spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot, and Ron had bad luck with his. By the end of the class, everyone was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall's classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Grace and Hermione had no problem, but Harry, Ron, and Taylor struggled. Harry, Taylor, and Ron were relieved to hear the lunch bell. Everyone filed out of the classroom except Harry and Ron, who was whacking his wand furiously on the desk.

Ron: Stupid — useless — thing…

Harry: Write home for another one.

Ron: Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back. 'It's your own fault your wand got snapped…

They went down to lunch, where Ron's mood was not improved by Grace and Hermione showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons they had produced in Transfiguration.

Taylor: What've we got this afternoon?

Grace: Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Ron grabbed Hermione and Grace's schedules.

Ron: Why, have you two outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?

Grace and Hermione snatched their schedules back, blushing furiously. They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Grace and Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried their noses in "Voyages with Vampires" again. Harry, Taylor, and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes since Taylor was excited about making the team as a chaser (A/N Charlie decided to become keeper since he practiced with Wood before he left and became really good. Taylor took his spot) before Taylor became aware that they were being closely watched. Looking up, she saw a very small, mousy-haired boy she'd seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry, Grace, and herself as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Taylor looked at him, he went bright red. Harry then looked up and saw the boy Taylor was looking at.

Colin: All right, Taylor? I'm — I'm Colin Creevey. I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture of you three?

Harry: A picture?

Colin: So I can prove I've met you. I already have a picture of Amy since she is in my year. I know all about you four. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a

lightning scar on your forehead and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move. It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you three maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you guys sign it?

Draco: Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potters? Everyone line up! The Potters are giving out signed photos!

Taylor: No, we're not. Shut up, Malfoy.

Colin: You're just jealous.

Draco: Jealous? Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself.

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.

Ron: Eat slugs, Malfoy.

Draco: Be careful, Weasley. You don't want to start any trouble or your mommy'll have to come and take you away from school. If you put another toe out of line… Weasley would like a signed photo, Potters. It'd be worth more than his family's whole house.

Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut "Voyages with Vampires" with a snap

Hermione: Look out!

Lockhart: What's all this, what's all this? Who's giving out signed photos? Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Potters! Come on then, Mr. Creevey. A quadruple portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll all sign it for you.

Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.

Lockhart: Off you go, move along there. A word to the wise, you three. I covered up for you back there with young Creevey — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much… Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go but I don't think you're quite there yet.

They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let them go at last. Harry and Taylor yanked their robes straight while Grace just smiled and they headed for a couple of seats at the very back of the class, where Taylor and Harry busied themselves with piling all seven of Lockhart's books in front of them, so that they could avoid looking at the real thing. The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron sat next to Harry and Hermione sat down next to Grace.

Ron: You could've fried an egg on your face. You'd better hope Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Potter fan club.

Taylor: Shut up!

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of "Travels with Trolls", and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

Lockhart: Me, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's

Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her! I see you've all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in.

When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class

Lockhart: You have thirty minutes — start — now!

Taylor looked down at her paper and read:

1\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?

2\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

3\. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

54\. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

Lockhart: Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in "Year with the Yeti". And a few of you need to read "Wanderings with Werewolves" more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples — though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky!

He gave them another roguish wink. Taylor, Harry, and Ron were now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on their faces; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Grace and Hermione, on the other hand, were listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when he mentioned their names.

Lockhart: …but Miss Hermione Granger and Miss Grace Potter knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions—good girls! In fact full marks! Where is Miss Grace Potter and Miss Hermione Granger?

They raised their trembling hands.

Lockhart: Excellent! Quite excellent! Take twenty points for Gryffindor! And so — to business…

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

Lockhart: Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.

Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front row seat.

Lockhart: I must ask you not to scream. It might provoke them.

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

Lockhart: Yes. Freshly caught Cornish pixies.

Seamus Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.

Lockhart: Yes?

Seamus: Well, they're not—they're not very—dangerous, are they?

Lockhart: Don't be so sure! Devilish tricky little blighters they can be! Right, then. Let's see what you make of them!

And he opened the cage. It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. Within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

Lockhart: Come on now—round them up, round them up, they're only pixies. Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window. Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way. The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Taylor, Grace, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were almost at the door.

Lockhart: Well, I'll ask you five to just nip the rest of them back into their cage.

He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.

Ron: Can you believe him?

Grace: He just wants to give us some hands-on experience.

Taylor: Hands on? Grace, he didn't have a clue what he was doing.

Hermione: Rubbish. You've read his books—look at all those amazing things he's done…

Ron: He says he's done.


	7. Mudbloods and Murmurs

So with one thing and another, Everyone was quite glad to reach the weekend. Taylor, Harry, Grace, Ron, and Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry and Taylor, however, were shaken awake several hours earlier than they would have liked by Charlie Weasley, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Harry: Whassamatter?

Charlie: Quidditch practice! Come on!

Harry: Charlie, it's the crack of dawn.

Charlie: Exactly. It's part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom; your sister is already up, let's go. None of the other teams have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this year…Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.

Harry went down the spiral staircase to the common room and met Taylor, his Nimbus Two Thousand on his shoulder and her Nimbus Two Thousand on her shoulder. They had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind them and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.

Colin: I heard someone saying your name on the stairs! Look what I've got here! I've had it developed, I wanted to show you…

Harry and Taylor looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under their noses. A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on two arms Harry and Taylor recognized as their own. They were pleased to see that their photographic selves were putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As they watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.

Colin: Will you sign it?

Taylor: No, sorry, Colin, we're in a hurry — Quidditch practice.

They climbed through the portrait hole.

Colin: Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!

Colin scrambled through the hole after them.

Harry: It'll be really boring.

Colin: You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren't you, Harry? Weren't you? You must be brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Are those your own brooms? Are they the best ones there are? I don't really understand Quidditch. Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?

Taylor: Yes. They're called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.

Colin: And what are the other balls for?

Harry: Well, the Quaffle—that's the biggish red one—is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch — they're three long poles with hoops on the end. And the fourth ball is the Golden Snitch, and it's very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and fifty points.

Colin: And you're the Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you Harry? And you're one of the Gryffindor chasers aren't you Taylor?

Taylor: Yes, and there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts. That's it, really.

But Colin didn't stop questioning them all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and they only shook him off when they reached the changing rooms; Colin called after them in a piping voice

Colin: I'll go and get a good seat!

He then hurried off to the stands. The rest of the Gryffindor team was already in the changing room. Charlie was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred Weasley was sitting, puffy-eyed and touslehaired, next to third year Angelina Johnson, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chaser, Katie Bell was yawning opposite them. Taylor went to sit next to George Weasley. While Harry went to sit next to Katie.

Charlie: There you are, you two, what kept you? Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent part of the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference.

Charlie was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different colored inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Charlie launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred Weasley's head drooped right onto Angelina Johnson's shoulder and he began to snore. Taylor and George were leaning on each other's shoulders and were sleeping and snoring. The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. Harry sank into a stupor as Charlie droned on and on.

Charlie: So, is that clear? Any questions?

Taylor, George, and Fred had woken u courtesy of Angelina and Harry. Taylor and George shot dirty looks at Harry. Then George asked a question.

George: I've got a question, Charlie. Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?

Charlie wasn't pleased.

Charlie: Now, listen here, you lot. We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control.

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

Charlie: So this year, we train harder than ever before. Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice!"

Everyone seized their broomsticks and he lead the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff legged and still yawning, his team followed. They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry and Taylor walked onto the field, they saw Grace, Ron, and Hermione sitting in the stands.

Ron: Aren't you finished yet?

Taylor: Haven't even started. Charlie's been teaching us new moves.

She mounted her broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped her face. It felt wonderful to be on the Quidditch field. She soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Harry, Fred, and George.

Fred: What's that funny clicking noise?

He asked as they hurtled around the corner. Taylor looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

Colin: Look this way, Taylor and Harry! This way!

Fred: Who's that?

Taylor: No idea.

She put on a spurt of speed that took her as far away as possible from Colin.

Charlie: What's going on? Why's that first year taking pictures? I don't like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program.

Harry: He's in Gryffindor.

George: And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Charlie,

Charlie: What makes you say that?

Taylor: Because they're here in person.

She pointed at the ground. Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.

Charlie: I don't believe it! I booked the field for today! We'll see about this!

Charlie shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Taylor, Harry, Fred, and George followed.

Charlie: Flint! This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!

Flint: Plenty of room for all of us, Charlie.

Angelina and Katie had come over, too.

Charlie: But I booked the field! I booked it!

Flint: Ah, but I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'

Charlie: You've got a new Seeker? Where?

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.

Fred: Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?

Flint: Funny you should mention Draco's father. Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team.

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.

Flint: Very latest model. Only came out last month. I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps it sweeps the board with them.

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.

Flint: Oh, look, a field invasion.

Grace, Ron, and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.

Ron: What's happening? Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?

Draco: I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley. Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team.

Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.

Draco: Good, aren't they? But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

Hermione: At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent.

The smug look on Draco's face flickered.

Draco: No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood.

Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Taylor, Charlie, Fred, and George jumping on him and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand,

Ron: You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!

He pointed it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoy's face. A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the grass.

Grace: Ron! Ron! Are you all right?

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap. The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Draco was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch him.

Harry: We'd better get him to Hagrid's, it's nearest

Taylor, Grace, and Hermione nodded bravely, and Taylor and Harry pulled Ron up by the arms.

Colin: What happened? What happened? Is he ill? But you can cure him, can't you?

Colin had run down from his seat and was now dancing alongside them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and more slugs dribbled down his front.

Colin: Oooh. Can you hold him still?

Taylor: Get out of the way, Colin!

Taylor and Harry supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.

Hermione: Nearly there, Ron. You'll be all right in a minute — almost there…

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid's house when the front door opened, but it wasn't Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.

Harry: Quick, behind here

Taylor and Harry dragged Ron behind a nearby bush. Hermione and Grace followed, somewhat reluctantly.

Lockhart: It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing! If you need help, you know where I am! I'll let you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't already got one — I'll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!

And he strode away toward the castle. Taylor and Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid's front door. Grace and Hermione followed. They knocked urgently. Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw who it was.

Hagrid: Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me — come in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again.

Harry and Taylor supported Ron over the threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn't seem perturbed by Ron's slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a chair.

Hagrid: Better out than in. Get 'em all up, Ron.

Grace: I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop. That's a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand…

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.

Harry: What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?

Hagrid: Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well. Like I don' know. An' bangin' on about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my kettle.

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Taylor and Harry looked at him in surprise.

Grace: I think you're being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job.

Hagrid: He was the on'y man for the job. An' I mean the on'y one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. So tell me, who was Ron tryin' ter curse?

Harry: Malfoy called Hermione something — it must've been really bad, because everyone went wild.

Taylor: It was bad. Malfoy called her 'Mudblood,' Hagrid. Ron dived out of sight as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.

Hagrid: He didn'!

Hermione: He did, but I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course —

Ron: It's about the most insulting thing he could think of.

Taylor: Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards — like Malfoy's family — who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood. I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom — he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.

Hagrid: An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do.

Ron: It's a disgusting thing to call someone. Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles we'd've died out.

Hagrid: I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron. Bu' maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble.

Hagrid was quiet for a moment and then he spoke.

Hagrid: Taylor and Harry, gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?

Taylor: We have not been giving out signed photos. If Lockhart's still spreading that around…

But then they saw that Hagrid was laughing.

Hagrid: I'm on'y jokin'. I knew yeh hadn't really. I told Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin'.

Harry: Bet he didn't like that,

Hagrid: Don' think he did. An' then I told him I'd never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?

Ron: No thanks. Better not risk it.

Hagrid: Come an' see what I've bin growin'.

Taylor, Grace, Harry, and Hermione finished the last of their tea. In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins they had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.

Hagrid: Gettin' on well, aren't they? Fer the Halloween feast… should be big enough by then.

Harry: What've you been feeding them?  
Hagrid: Well, I've bin givin' them — you know — a bit o' help.

Grace noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabin. Grace had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, she had the strong impression that Hagrid's old school wand was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic. He had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Grace had never found out why — any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.

Hermione: An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?

Ron: Well, you've done a good job on them.

Hagrid: That's what yer little sister said. Met her jus' yesterday. She came and visited with Amy. Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin' she might run inter someone else at my house. If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed…

Harry: Oh, shut up. Besides she has Amy for her best friend.

It was nearly lunchtime and as Taylor and Harry had only had one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, they were keen to go back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs. They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out.

McGonagall: There you are, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. You will both do your detentions this evening.

Ron: What're we doing, Professor?

McGonagall: You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch. And no magic, Weasley—elbow grease.

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.

McGonagall: And you, Mr. Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail.

Harry: Oh n — Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?

McGonagall: Certainly not. Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o'clock sharp, both of you.

Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom.

Taylor: Maybe I should be glad I wasn't in the car.

Grace and Hermione were behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression. Harry didn't enjoy his shepherd's pie as much as he'd thought. Both he and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.

Ron: Filch'll have me there all night. No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning.

Harry: I'd swap anytime. I've had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's fan mail . . . he'll be a nightmare.

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. He gritted his teeth and knocked. The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him.

Lockhart: Ah, here's the scalawag! Come in, Harry, come in.

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.

Lockhart: You can address the envelopes! This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine…

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart's voice wash over him. The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. It must be nearly time to leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly time. And then he heard something — something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans. It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom. Voice: Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you…

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley's street.

Harry: What?

Lockhart: I know! Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list! Broke all records!

Harry: No! That voice!

Lockhart: Sorry? What voice?

Harry: That — that voice that said — didn't you hear it? Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.

Lockhart: What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! I'd never have believed it — the time's flown, hasn't it?

Harry didn't answer. He was straining his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn't expect a treat like this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry left. It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty. Harry went straight up to the dormitory. Ron wasn't back yet. Harry pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later, Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into the darkened room.

Ron: My muscles have all seized up. Fourteen times he made me buff up that Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied. And then I had another slug attack all over a Special Award for Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off. . . . How was it with Lockhart?

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he had heard.

Ron: And Lockhart said he couldn't hear it? D'you think he was lying? But I don't get it — even someone invisible would've had to open the door.

Harry: I know. I don't get it either.


	8. The Deathday Party

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire. Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Charlie's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Taylor and Harry were to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn't been a happy practice session. Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles. As Taylor and Harry squelched along the deserted corridor they came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as they were. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath.

Nick: …don't fulfill their requirements… half an inch, if that…

Taylor: Hello, Nick.

Nick: Hello, hello. You look troubled, young Potters.

Harry: So do you.

Nick: Ah, a matter of no importance. . . . It's not as though I really wanted to join. . . . Thought I'd apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfill requirements'. But you would think, wouldn't you that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?

Taylor: Oh — yes.

Nick: I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However—'we can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.' Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh, no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore. Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths.

Nick: So — what's bothering you? Anything I can do?

Harry: No, not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly…

The rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.

Nick: You two better get out of here. Filch isn't in a good mood — he's got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He's been cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place…

Taylor: Right.

They started backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to their right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

Filch: Filth! Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potters!

Taylor and Harry waved gloomy good-byes to Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor. Taylor and Harry had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most students avoided. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

Filch: Dung, great sizzling dragon bogies… frog brains... rat intestines… I've had enough of it… make an example… where's the form… yes…

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

Filch: Name… Harry and Taylor Potter. Crime…

Taylor: It was only a bit of mud!

Filch: It's only a bit of mud to you, but to me it's an extra hour scrubbing! Crime… befouling the castle… suggested sentence…

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry and Taylor, who waited with bated breath for their sentences to fall. But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office.

Filch: PEEVES! I'll have you this time, I'll have you!

And without a backward glance at Taylor and Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him. Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harry didn't much like Peeves, Taylor didn't mind him because she likes pranks, but they couldn't help feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he'd wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Taylor and Harry. Thinking that they should probably wait for Filch to come back, Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk, while Taylor stood. There was only one thing on it apart from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn't on his way back, Taylor picked up the envelope and read: "KWIKSPELL A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic Intrigued", Taylor flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said: 'Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? There is an answer! Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method! Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:' "I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!" 'Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:' "My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!" Fascinated, Taylor thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a proper wizard? Taylor was just reading "Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)" when shuffling footsteps outside told her Filch was coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Taylor threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened. Filch was looking triumphant.

Filch: That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable! We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet…

His eyes fell on Harry and Taylor and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, Taylor realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started. Filch's pasty face went brick red. Taylor and Harry braced themselves for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.

Filch: Have you — did you read — ?

Taylor: No.

Filch's knobbly hands were twisting together.

Filch: If I thought you'd read my private — not that it's mine — for a friend — be that as it may — however… Harry and Taylor were staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn't help.

Filch: Very well — go — and don't breathe a word — not that — however, if you didn't read — go now, I have to write up Peeves' report — go.

Amazed at their luck, Harry and Taylor sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back upstairs. To escape from Filch's office without punishment was probably some kind of school record.

Nick: Taylor! Harry! Did it work?

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Harry and Taylor could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been dropped from a great height.

Nick: I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch's office. Thought it might distract him…

Harry: Was that you? Yeah, it worked, We didn't even get detention. Thanks, Nick!

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Taylor noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter.

Taylor: I wish there was something we could do for you about the Headless Hunt.

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry and Taylor walked right through him. They wished they hadn't; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

Nick: But there is something you could do for me. Would I be asking too much — but no, you wouldn't want…

Harry: What is it?

Nick: Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday.

Harry: Oh right.

Nick: I'm holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the country. It would be such an honor if you and your siblings would attend. Mr. Weasley, Miss Weasley, and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of course — but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?

Taylor: No, we'll come.

Nick: The Potters, at my deathday party! And do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me? "

Harry: Of course.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at them. "

Back in the common room Taylor and Harry had just finished telling Grace, Ron, Hermione, Amy, and Ginny about the deathday party. Ginny unfortunately had to decline the offer saying something about homework. Ginny left and Amy followed her after saying she would come to the deathday party.

Hermione: A deathday party? I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those — it'll be fascinating!

Ron: Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died? Sounds dead depressing to me.

Taylor was at the point of telling Grace, Ron, and Hermione about Filch and the Kwikspell course when Fred and George let off a loud bang emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from Taylor's mind. By the time Halloween arrived, Taylor and Harry were regretting their rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

Grace: A promise is a promise. You said you'd go to the deathday party.

So at seven o'clock, Taylor, Grace, Amy, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons. The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. They heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

Ron: Is that supposed to be music?

They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

Nick: My dear friends, welcome, welcome . . . so pleased you could come…

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside. It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer. Grace: Shall we have a look around?

Taylor: Careful not to walk through anyone.

They set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

Hermione: Oh, no.

Amy, Grace, and Taylor saw who Hermione was looking at and started turning around.

Grace: Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle…

Harry: Who?

Taylor: She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor.

Harry: She haunts a toilet?

Hermione: Yes. It's been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you…

Ron: Look, food!

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington died 31st October, 1492 Ron watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

Ron: Can you taste it if you walk through it?

Ghost: Almost

Hermione: I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor.

Ron: Can we move? I feel sick.

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.

Grace: Hello, Peeves.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.

Peeves: Nibbles?

He offered them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

Amy: No thanks.

Peeves: Heard you talking about poor Myrtle. Rude you was about poor Myrtle. OY! MYRTLE!

Grace: Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what we said, she'll be really upset. We didn't mean it, We don't mind her — er, hello, Myrtle.

The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

Myrtle: What?

Hermione: How are you, Myrtle?

Taylor: It's nice to see you out of the toilet.

Myrtle sniffed.

Peeves: Miss Granger and the lady Potters were just talking about you…

Grace: Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight…

Myrtle: You're making fun of me.

Silver tears started welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.

Taylor: No — honestly — didn't we just say how nice Myrtle's looking?

She nudged Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.

Ron: Oh, yeah…

Harry: They did…

Myrtle: Don't lie to me.

Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder.

Myrtle: D'you think I don't know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!

Peeves: You've forgotten pimply.

Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts.

Peeves: Pimply! Pimply!

Hermione: Oh, dear.

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.

Nick: Enjoying yourselves?

All: Oh, yes.

Nick: Not a bad turnout. The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent… It's nearly time for my speech, I'd better go and warn the orchestra.

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounded.

Nick: Oh, here we go.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly. The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd, everyone laughed, and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.

Patrick: Nick! How are you? Head still hanging in there?

He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.

Nick: Welcome, Patrick.

Patrick: Live 'uns!

He spotted Taylor, Grace, Amy, Harry, Ron, and Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again, the crowd howled with laughter.

Nick: Very amusing.

Patrick: Don't mind Nick! Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say — look at the fellow…

Harry: I think Nick's very — frightening and — er…

Patrick: Ha! Bet he asked you to say that!

Nick: If I could have everyone's attention, it's time for my speech! My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen it is my great sorrow…

But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch. Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick's head went sailing past him to loud cheers. Harry, Grace, Taylor, Amy, Hermione, and Ron were very cold by now, not to mention hungry.

Ron: I can't stand much more of this.

Taylor: Let's go.

They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles.

Ron: Pudding might not be finished yet. Harry heard a voice.

Voice: …rip… tear… kill…

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in Lockhart's office. He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

Taylor: Harry, what're you — ?

Harry: It's that voice again — shut up a minute .

Voice: …soo hungry… for so long…

Harry: Listen!

Taylor, Amy, Grace, Ron, and Hermione froze, watching him.

Voice: …kill… time to kill…

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away — moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn't matter?

Harry: This way!

He began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Taylor, Amy, Grace, Ron, and Hermione clattering behind him.

Grace: Harry, what're we…

Harry: SHH!

Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice.

Voice: …I smell blood… I SMELL BLOOD!

Harry: It's going to kill someone!

Ignoring Taylor, Grace, Amy, Ron, and Hermione's bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps — Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Taylor, Grace, Amy, Ron, and Hermione panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

Amy: Harry, what was that all about?

Grace: Yeah, I couldn't hear anything…

But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

Hermione: Look!

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches. 'THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE'.

Ron: What's that thing — hanging underneath?

As they edged nearer, Amy almost slipped — there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All six of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash. Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring. For a few seconds, they didn't move.

Taylor: Let's get out of here.

Grace: Shouldn't we try and help…

Taylor: Trust me. We don't want to be found here.

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends. The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Taylor, Grace, Amy, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight. Then someone shouted through the quiet.

Draco: 'Enemies of the Heir, beware'! You'll be next, Mudbloods!


	9. The Writing on the Wall

Filch: What's going on here? What's going on?

Attracted no doubt by Malfoy's shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.

Filch: My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?

And his popping eyes fell on the six.

Filch: You! You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll…

Dumbledore: Argus!

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Taylor, Grace, Amy, Harry, Ron, and Hermione and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

Dumbledore: Come with me, Argus. You, too, Mr. Potter, Miss Taylor, Miss Grace, Miss Amy, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

Lockhart: My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free…

Dumbledore: Thank you, Gilderoy.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape. As they entered Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry, Taylor, Grace, Amy, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching. The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking.

Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions.

Lockhart: It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian Torture — I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her…

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. If Dumbledore believed Filch, they would be expelled for sure. Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

Lockhart: …I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou, a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once…

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net. At last Dumbledore straightened up.

Dumbledore: She's not dead, Argus.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

Filch: Not dead? But why's she all — all stiff and frozen?

Dumbledore: She has been Petrified.

Lockhart: Ah! I thought so!

Dumbledore: But how, I cannot say…

Filch: Ask them!

Dumbledore: No second years or a first year could have done this. It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced…

Filch: They did it, they did it! You saw what they wrote on the wall! Miss Taylor and Mr. Potter found—in my office—they know I'm a—I'm a Squib!

Taylor: We never touched Mrs. Norris!

Harry: And I don't even know what a Squib is.

Filch: Rubbish! They saw my Kwikspell letter!

Snape: If I might speak, Headmaster. The Potters and their friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren't they at the Halloween feast?

Taylor, Amy, Grace, Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the deathday party. All: …there were hundreds of ghosts, they'll tell you we were there…

Snape: But why not join the feast afterward? Why go up to that corridor?"

Taylor, Grace, Amy, Ron, and Hermione looked at Harry.

Harry: Because — because… because we were tired and wanted to go to bed.

Snape: Without any supper? I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties.

Ron: We weren't hungry.

Then his stomach gave a huge rumble.

Snape's nasty smile widened.

Snape: I suggest, Headmaster, that Miss Taylor and Mr. Potter are not being entirely truthful. It might be a good idea if they were deprived of certain privileges until they are ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel they should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until they are ready to be honest.

McGonagall: Really, Severus, I see no reason to stop the children from playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with broomsticks. There is no evidence at all that the children have done anything wrong.

Dumbledore was giving the six a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made them feel as though they were being X-rayed.

Dumbledore: Innocent until proven guilty, Severus.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

Filch: My cat has been Petrified! I want to see some punishment!

Dumbledore: We will be able to cure her, Argus. Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris.

Lockhart: I'll make it, I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep…

Snape: Excuse me, but I believe I am the Potions master at this school.

There was a very awkward pause.

Dumbledore: You six may go.

They went, as quickly as they could without actually running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart's office, they turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted at his friends and sisters' darkened faces.

Harry: D'you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?

Ron: No, hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world.

Harry: You do believe me, don't you?"

Ron: 'Course I do, but — you must admit it's weird…

Harry: I know it's weird. The whole thing's weird. What was that writing on the wall about? 'The Chamber Has Been Opened'… What's that supposed to mean?

Ron: You know, it rings a sort of bell. I think someone told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once… might've been Bill…

Harry: And what on earth's a Squib?

To his surprise, Ron and Taylor stifled sniggers.

Taylor: Well — it's not funny really — but as it's Filch. A

Squib is someone who was born into a wizarding family but hasn't got any magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch's trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates students so much, he's bitter.

A clock chimed somewhere.

Grace: Midnight. We'd better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us for something else.

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone's minds by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Everyone had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess

Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn't guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like 'breathing loudly' and 'looking happy'. Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris's fate. According to Amy and Ron, she was a great cat lover.

Amy: But you haven't really got to know Mrs. Norris. Honestly, we're much better off without her.

Ginny's lip trembled.

Ron: Stuff like this doesn't often happen at Hogwarts. They'll catch the maniac who did it and have him out of here in no time. I just hope he's got time to Petrify Filch before he's expelled. I'm only joking…

The attack had also had an effect on Hermione and Grace. It was quite usual for them to spend a lot of time reading, but they were now doing almost nothing else. Nor could Taylor, Harry, and Ron get much response from them when they asked what they were up to, and not until the following Wednesday did they find out.

Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made him stay behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went upstairs to meet Ron and Taylor in the library, and saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction. Harry found Taylor and Ron at the back of the library, measuring their History of Magic homework. Professor Binns had asked for a three foot-long composition on "The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards."

Ron: I don't believe it, I'm still eight inches short…

Taylor: Ha ha mine's done exactly three feet.

Ron: And Hermione's done four feet seven inches and her writing's tiny.

Taylor: Grace has done four feet eight inches and she writes tiny too.

Harry: Where are they?

He grabbed the tape measure and unrolled his own homework.

Ron: Somewhere over there.

Taylor: They're looking for another book. I think they're trying to read the whole library before Christmas.

Harry told Ron and Taylor about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away from him.

Ron: Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an idiot.

Taylor: True that.

They high fived and Ron started scribbling away, making his writing as large as possible.

Ron: All that junk about Lockhart being so great…

Hermione and Grace emerged from between the bookshelves. They looked irritable and at last seemed ready to talk to them.

Grace: All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out.

Hermione: And there's a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn't left my copy at home, but I couldn't fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books.

Taylor: Why do you two want it?

Grace: The same reason everyone else wants it to read up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry: What's that?

Hermione: That's just it. I can't remember.

Grace: And we can't find the story anywhere else…

Ron: Grace, Hermione, let me read your compositions.

Hermione: No, I won't.

Grace: Neither will I. You've had ten days to finish it.

Ron: I only need another two inches, come on…

The bell rang. Grace, Ron, and Hermione led the way to History of Magic, bickering. History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his entering the room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people said he hadn't noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach one day and left his body behind him in an armchair in front of the staffroom fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since. Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again. He had been speaking for half an hour when something happened that had never happened before. Hermione and Grace put up their hands. Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed.

Binns: Miss — er — ?

Hermione: Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets.

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown's head came up off her arms and Neville Longbottom's elbow slipped off his desk. Professor Binns blinked.

Binns: My subject is History of Magic. I deal with, facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends.

He cleared his throat with a small noise like chalk snapping and continued,

Binns: In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers…

He stuttered to a halt. Grace's hand was waving in the air again.

Binns: Miss Potter?

Grace: Please, sir, don't legends always have a basis in fact?

Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Harry was sure no student had ever interrupted him before, alive or dead.

Binns: Well, yes, one could argue that, I suppose. However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale…

But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns's every word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Harry could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of interest.

Binns: Oh, very well. Let me see… the Chamber of

Secrets… You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago — the precise date is uncertain — by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school Houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when common people feared magic, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution. For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and

Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school. Reliable historical sources tell us this much. But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the

Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic.

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn't the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns's classes. There was unease in the air as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more. Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed.

Binns: The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course. Naturally, the most learned witches and wizards have searched the school for evidence of such a chamber, many times. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible.

Hermione's hand was back in the air.

Hermione: Sir — what exactly do you mean by the 'horror within' the Chamber?

Binns: That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control.

The class exchanged nervous looks.

Binns: I tell you, the thing does not exist. There is no Chamber and no monster.

Seamus: But, sir if Slytherin's true heir can only open the Chamber, no one else would be able to find it, would they?

Binns: Nonsense, O'Flaherty. If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven't found the thing…

Parvati: But, Professor you'd probably have to use Dark Magic to open it…

Binns: Just because a wizard doesn't use Dark Magic doesn't mean he can't, Miss Pennyfeather. I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore…

Dean: But maybe you've got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn't…

Binns: That will do. It is a myth! It does not exist!

There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor.

Ron: I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony. But I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I wouldn't be in his House if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I'd've got the train straight back home…

Hermione, Grace, and Taylor nodded fervently, but Harry didn't say anything. His stomach had just dropped unpleasantly. Harry had never told Taylor, Grace, Ron, and Hermione that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting him in Slytherin. He could remember, as though it were yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear when he'd placed the hat on his head a year before.

Sorting hat: You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that…

But Harry, who had already heard of Slytherin House's reputation for turning out Dark wizards, had thought desperately.

Harry: Not Slytherin!

Sorting hat: Oh, well, if you're sure… better be Gryffindor!

As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin Creevey went past.

Colin: Hiya!

Taylor: Hullo, Colin.

Colin: Harry — Harry — a boy in my class has been saying you're…

But Colin was so small he couldn't fight against the tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall.

Colin: See you!

He was gone.

Hermione: What's a boy in his class saying about you?

Harry: That I'm Slytherin's heir, I expect.

Ron: People here'll believe anything.

Taylor: D'you really think there's a Chamber of Secrets?

Grace: I don't know. Dumbledore couldn't cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be — well — human.

As she spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message 'The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened'.

Ron: That's where Filch has been keeping guard.

They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.

Taylor: Can't hurt to have a poke around.

She dropped her bag and getting to her hands and knees so that she could crawl along, searching for clues.

Taylor: Scorch marks! Here — and here…

Hermione: Come and look at this! This is funny…

Taylor got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall. Hermione was pointing at the topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.

Grace: Have you ever seen spiders act like that?

Harry: No, have you, Ron? Ron?

He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well back and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run.

Taylor: What's up?

Ron: I — don't — like — spiders.

Hermione: I never knew that. You've used spiders in Potions loads of times…

Ron: I don't mind them dead. I just don't like the way they move…

Hermione, Taylor, and Grace giggled, while Harry stifled a laugh.

Ron: It's not funny, if you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my — my teddy bear into a great big filthy spider because I broke his toy broomstick… You wouldn't like them either if you'd been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and…

He broke off, shuddering.

Grace: Remember all that water on the floor? Where did that come from? Someone's mopped it up.

Ron: It was about here. Level with this door.

He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as though he'd been burned.

Harry: What's the matter?

Ron: Can't go in there, that's a girls' toilet.

Hermione: Oh, Ron, there won't be anyone in there. Taylor: That's Moaning Myrtle's place.

Grace: Come on; let's have a look.

And ignoring the large out of order sign, they opened the door. The girls put their fingers to their lips and set off toward the end stall. When they reached it Grace spoke.

Grace: Hello, Myrtle, how are you?

Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin.

Myrtle: This is a girls' bathroom. They're not girls.

Taylor: No. We just wanted to show them how—er—nice it is in here.

Harry: (mouthing) Ask her if she saw anything.

Myrtle: What are you whispering?

Harry: Nothing, we wanted to ask…

Myrtle: I wish people would stop talking behind my back! I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead.

Hermione: Myrtle, no one wants to upset you. Harry only…

Myrtle: No one wants to upset me! That's a good one! My life was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along ruining my death!

Grace: We wanted to ask you if you've seen anything funny lately. Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.

Harry: Did you see anyone near here that night?

Myrtle: I wasn't paying attention. Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I'm — that I'm…

Ron: …Already dead.

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight, although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend. Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, but Taylor, Grace, and Hermione shrugged wearily.

Taylor: Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle… Come on, let's go.

Harry had barely closed the door on Myrtle's gurgling sobs when a loud voice made all five of them jump.

Percy: RON!

Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, with an expression of complete shock on his face.

Percy: That's a girls' bathroom! What were you — ?

Ron: Just having a look around, clues, you know…

Percy: Get — away — from — there… Don't you care what this looks like? Coming back here while everyone's at dinner…

Ron: Why shouldn't we be here? Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!

Percy: That's what I told Ginny, but she still seems to think you're going to be expelled, I've never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out, you might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this business…

Ron: You don't care about Ginny.

His ears were now reddening.

Ron: You're just worried I'm going to mess up your chances of being a prefect.

Percy: No more detective work, or I'll write to Mum!

And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as Ron's ears. Taylor, Grace, Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as possible from Percy in the common room that night. Ron was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting his Charms homework. When he reached absently for his wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the parchment. Fuming almost as much as his homework, Ron slammed "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2" shut. To Harry's surprise, Grace and Hermione followed suit.

Grace: Who can it be, though? Who'd want to frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?"

Taylor: Let's think… Who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?

Hermione: If you're talking about Malfoy…

Taylor: Of course I am! You heard him—'You'll be next,

Mudbloods!'—come on, you've only got to look at his foul rat face to know it's him.

Grace: Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?

Harry: Look at his family, the whole lot of them have been in Slytherin; he's always boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin's descendants. His father's definitely evil enough.

Ron: They could've had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries! Handing it down, father to son…

Hermione: Well I suppose it's possible…

Taylor: But how do we prove it?

Grace: There might be a way. Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect…

Ron: If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won't you?

Hermione: All right. What we'd need to do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it's us.

Harry: But that's impossible.

Grace: No, it's not, all we'd need would be some Polyjuice Potion.

Taylor, Harry, and Ron: What's that?

Hermione: Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago…

Ron: D'you think we've got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to Snape?

Grace: It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change into five of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us anything. He's probably boasting about it in the Slytherin common room right now, if only we could hear him.

Ron: This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me. What if we were stuck looking like five of the Slytherins forever?"

Hermione: It wears off after a while. But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called "Moste Potente" Potions and it's bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library.

There was only one way to get out a book from the Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of permission from a teacher.

Taylor: Hard to see why we'd want the book, really if we weren't going to try and make one of the potions.

Grace: I think that if we made it sound as though we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance…

Ron: Oh, come on, no teacher's going to fall for that. They'd have to be really thick…


	10. The Rouge Bludger

Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his books to them, and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic bits. He usually picked Harry to help him with these reconstructions; so far, Harry had been forced to play a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold, and a vampire who had been unable to eat anything except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him. Harry was hauled to the front of the class during their very next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, this time acting a werewolf. If he hadn't had a very good reason for keeping Lockhart in a good mood, he would have refused to do it.

Lockhart: Nice loud howl, Harry—exactly—and then, if you'll believe it, I pounced—like this—slammed him to the floor—thus—with one hand, I managed to hold him down — with my other, I put my wand to his throat — I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm — he let out a piteous moan — go on, Harry — higher than that — good — the fur vanished — the fangs shrank — and he turned back into a man. Simple, yet effective — and another village will remember me forever as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.

The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.

Lockhart: Homework — compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!

The class began to leave. Harry returned to the back of the room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting.

Harry: Ready?

Hermione: Wait till everyone's gone. All right.

Hermione and Grace approached Lockhart's desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in Grace's hand, Taylor, Harry, and Ron were right behind them.

Grace: Er — Professor Lockhart? I wanted to — to get this book out of the library. Just for background reading.

She held out the piece of paper, her hand shaking slightly.

Grace: But the thing is, it's in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to sign for it — I'm sure it would help me understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls about slow-acting venoms…

Lockhart: Ah, Gadding with Ghouls! Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?

Hermione: Oh, yes, so clever, the way you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer…

Lockhart: Well, I'm sure no one will mind me giving the two best students of the year a little extra help.

He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it back to Grace.

Lockhart: So, Harry, Taylor tomorrow's the first Quidditch match of the season, I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear you two are useful players. I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private training, don't hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass on my expertise to less able players…

Taylor looked as if she was about to puke. So Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then they hurried off after Grace, Ron, and Hermione.

Taylor: I don't believe it. He didn't even look at the book we wanted.

Ron: That's because he's a brainless git.

Taylor: Too true.

Ron: But who cares, we've got what we needed.

Grace and Hermione: He is not a brainless git.

Ron: Just because he said you two were the best students of the year…

They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an underfed vulture.

Pince: Moste Potente Potions?

Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test. She stalked away between the lofty shelves and returned several minutes later carrying a large and moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully into her bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or look too guilty. Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Myrtle's out-of-order bathroom once again. Hermione had overridden Ron's objections by pointing out that it was the last place anyone in their right minds would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy. Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but they were ignoring her, and she them. Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and the five of them bent over the damp-spotted pages. It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects almost too gruesome to think about, and there were some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a man who seemed to have been turned inside out and a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of her head.

Hermione: Here it is.

Grace: This is the most complicated potion I've ever seen. Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass. Well, they're easy enough, they're in the student store-cupboard, we can help ourselves… Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn — don't know where we're going to get that — shredded skin of a boomslang — that'll be tricky, too — and of course a bit of whoever we want to change into.

Ron: Excuse me? What d'you mean, a bit of whoever we're changing into? I'm drinking nothing with Crabbe's toenails in it…

Hermione: We don't have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those bits last…

Harry: D'you realize how much we're going to have to steal, Hermione? Shredded skin of a boomslang, that's definitely not in the students' cupboard. What're we going to do, break into Snape's private stores? I don't know if this is a good idea…

Grace shut the book with a snap.

Grace: Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine. I don't want to break rules, you know. I think threatening

Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in…

Taylor: I never thought I'd see the day when you two would be persuading us three to break rules. All right, we'll do it. But not toenails, okay?

Harry: How long will it take to make, anyway?

Hermione: Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings have got to be stewed for twenty-one days . . . I'd say it'd be ready in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients.

Ron: A month? Malfoy could have attacked half the

Muggle-borns in the school by then! But it's the best plan we've got, so full steam ahead, I say.

However, while Grace and Hermione were checking that the coast was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ron muttered to Taylor and Harry.

Ron: It'll be a lot less hassle if you two can just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.

The next morning Taylor got up, dressed, went down to the common room and met up with Harry and they went down to breakfast early, where they found the rest of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking uptight and not speaking much. As eleven o'clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. Grace, Amy, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione came hurrying over to wish Harry and Taylor good luck as they entered the locker rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor robes, and then sat down to listen to Charlie's pre-match pep talk.

Charlie: Slytherin has better brooms than us. No point denying it. But we've got better people on our brooms. We've trained harder than they have, we've been flying in all weathers…

Taylor: Too true.

George: I haven't been properly dry since August

Charlie: …And we're going to make them rue the day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his way onto their team. It'll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Harry, because we've got to win today, we've got to.

Fred: So no pressure, Harry.

As they walked out onto the field, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses heard, too. Madam Hooch, the Quidditch teacher, asked Flint and Charlie to shake hands, which they did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was necessary.

Hooch: On my whistle. Three… two… one…

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around for the Snitch.

Malfoy: All right there, Scarhead?

Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him; he avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.

George: Close one, Harry!

He was streaking past him with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin.

Harry saw George give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.

Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and George managed to hit it hard toward Malfoy. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry's head.

Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the field. He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible. . . .

Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Harry ducked as Fred swung at the Bludger with all his might; the Bludger was knocked off course.

Fred: Gotcha!

But he was wrong; as though it was magnetically attracted to Harry, the Bludger pelted after him once more and Harry was forced to fly off at full speed.

It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto his face, splattering onto his glasses. He didn't have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until he heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating.

Lee: Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero…

The Slytherins' superior brooms were clearly doing their jobs, and meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing all it could to knock Harry out of the air. Fred and George were now flying so close to him on either side that Harry could see nothing at all except their flailing arms and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let alone catch it.

Fred: Someone's — tampered — with — this — Bludger.

Fred was swinging his bat with all his might at it as it launched a new attack on Harry.

George: We need time out.

George was trying to signal to Charlie and stop the Bludger breaking Harry's nose at the same time. Charlie had obviously got the message. Madam Hooch's whistle rang out and Harry, Fred, and George dived for the ground, still trying to avoid the mad Bludger.

Charlie: What's going on? We're being flattened.

Fred, George, where were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina scoring?

George: We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other Bludger from murdering Harry, Charlie. Someone's fixed it — it won't leave Harry alone. It hasn't gone for anyone else all game. The Slytherins must have done something to it.

Charlie: But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam Hooch's office since our last practice, and there was nothing wrong with them then…

Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her shoulder, Harry could see the Slytherin team jeering and pointing in his direction.

Harry: Listen with you two flying around me all the time the only way I'm going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue one.

Fred: Don't be thick. It'll take your head off.

Taylor: Charlie, this is insane. You can't let Harry deal with that thing on his own. Let's ask for an inquiry…

Harry: If we stop now, we'll have to forfeit the match! And we're not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Charlie; tell them to leave me alone!

George: This is all your fault Charlie 'Get the Snitch or die trying,' what a stupid thing to tell him…

Madam Hooch had joined them.

Hooch: Ready to resume play?

Charlie looked at the determined look on Harry's face.

Charlie: All right, Fred, George, you heard Harry—leave him alone and let him deal with the Bludger on his own.

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam Hooch's whistle, Harry kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him. Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from the crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the rogue

Bludger was heavy and couldn't change direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goal posts, where Adrian Pucey was trying to get past Charlie—A whistling in Harry's ear told him the Bludger had just missed him again; he turned right over and sped in the opposite direction.

Draco: Training for the ballet, Potter?

Harry was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger, and he fled, the Bludger trailing a few feet behind him; and then, glaring back at Malfoy in hatred, he saw it — the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches above Malfoy's left ear — and Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn't seen it. For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not daring to speed toward Malfoy in case he looked up and saw the Snitch. WHAM. He had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger had hit him at last, smashed into his elbow, and Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at his side — the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time aiming at his face — Harry swerved out of the way, one idea firmly lodged in his numb brain: get to Malfoy. Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the shimmering, sneering face below him and saw its eyes widen with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was attacking him.

Draco: What the…

He careened out of Harry's way. Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass out. With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. His arm was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand.

Harry: Aha, we've won.

And he fainted.

Taylor and Grace: HARRY!

When Harry came around, rain was falling on his face, he was still lying on the field, with someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of teeth.

Harry: Oh, no, not you.

Lockhart: Doesn't know what he's saying. Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm.

Harry: No! I'll keep it like this, thanks…

He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar clicking noise nearby.

Harry: I don't want a photo of this, Colin.

Lockhart: Lie back, Harry. It's a simple charm, I've used countless times…

Harry: Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?

Charlie: He should really, Professor. Great capture,

Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I'd say…

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Taylor, Fred, and George, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

Lockhart: Stand back.

Harry: No — don't…

But Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at Harry's arm. A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry's shoulder and spread all the way down to his fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being deflated. He didn't dare look at what was happening. He had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his arm, but his worst fears were realized as the people above him gasped and

Colin Creevey began clicking away madly. His arm didn't hurt anymore—nor did it feel remotely like an arm.

Lockhart: Ah, yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing — ah, Miss Grace, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him?—and Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a bit.

As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath he looked down at his right side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again. Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened. Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones. He had removed them. Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.

Pomfrey: You should have come straight to me!

She was holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm.

Pomfrey: I can mend bones in a second — but growing them back…

Harry: You will be able to, won't you?

Pomfrey: I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful. You'll have to stay the night….

Ron: How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione? Grace? If Harry had wanted deboning he would have asked.

Hermione: Anyone can make a mistake.

Grace: And it doesn't hurt anymore, does it, Harry?

Harry: No, but it doesn't do anything else either.

As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped pointlessly. Hermione, Grace, and Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of something labeled Skele-Gro.

Pomfrey: You're in for a rough night. Regrowing bones is a nasty business.

So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry's mouth and throat as it went down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Grace, Ron, and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water.

Ron: We won, though. That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face… he looked ready to kill…

Hermione: I want to know how he fixed that Bludger.

Grace: We can add that to the list of questions we'll ask him when we've taken the Polyjuice Potion.

Harry: I hope it tastes better than this stuff…

Ron: If it's got bits of Slytherins in it? You've got to be joking.

The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry. Taylor rushed up to him and gave him a big hug.

Taylor: How are you feeling Harry?

Harry: Eh.

Taylor: I'm going to kill Lockhart.

Grace and Hermione: Don't You Dare!

Taylor: Humph.

George: Unbelievable flying, Harry. I've just seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn't seem too happy.

They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harry's bed and were just getting started on what promised to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over

Pomfrey: This boy needs rest, he's got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!

And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pains in his limp arm. Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, he thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark.

Harry: Get off! Dobby!

The house-elf's goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

Dobby: Harry Potter came back to school. Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?

Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed Dobby's sponge away.

Harry: What're you doing here? And how did you know I missed the train?

Dobby's lip trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion.

Harry: It was you! You stopped the barrier from letting us through!

Dobby: Indeed yes, sir, Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward, but Dobby didn't care, sir, for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another way! Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir…

Harry slumped back onto his pillows.

Harry: You nearly got Ron and me expelled. You'd better get lost before my bones come back, Dobby, or I might strangle you.

Dobby smiled weakly.

Dobby: Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at home.

He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore, looking so pathetic that Harry felt his anger ebb away in spite of himself.

Harry: Why d'you wear that thing, Dobby?

Dobby: This, sir? 'Tis a mark of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present him with clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave their house forever. The Potters must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make…

Harry: Your Bludger? What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill me?

Dobby: Not kill you, sir, never kill you! Dobby wants to save the Potters' lives! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home with his sisters!

Harry: Oh, is that all? I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?

Dobby: Ah, if the Potters only knew! If they knew what they mean to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir. But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir… And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let the Potters stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more…

Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Harry's water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed.

Dobby: Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby...

Harry: So there is a Chamber of Secrets? And—did you say it's been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!

He seized the elf's bony wrist as Dobby's hand inched toward the water jug.

Harry: But me and my sisters are not Muggle-born — how can we be in danger from the Chamber?

Dobby: Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby. Dark deeds are planned in this place, but the Potters must not be here when they happen — go home. The Potters must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too dangerous.

Harry: Who is it, Dobby?

He was keeping a firm hold on Dobby's wrist to stop him from hitting himself with the water jug again.

Harry: Who's opened it? Who opened it last time?

Dobby: Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell! Go home!

Harry: I'm not going anywhere! One of my best friends is Muggle-born; she'll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened…

Dobby: Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends! So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must, Harry Potter must not…

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.

Dobby: Dobby must go!

There was a loud crack, and Harry's fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer. Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.

Dumbledore: Get Madam Pomfrey.

Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry's bed out of sight. Harry lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of breath.

Pomfrey: What happened?

Dumbledore: Another attack. Minerva found him on the stairs.

McGonagall: There was a bunch of grapes next to him. We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter.

Harry's stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay across its staring face. It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his camera.

Pomfrey: Petrified?

McGonagall: Yes. But I shudder to think . . . If Albus hadn't been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate — who knows what might have…

The three of them stared down at Colin. Then Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the camera out of Colin's rigid grip.

McGonagall: You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?

Dumbledore didn't answer. He opened the back of the camera.

Pomfrey: Good gracious!

A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry, three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt plastic.

Pomfrey: Melted. All melted…

McGonagall: What does this mean, Albus?

Dumbledore: It means that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again.

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor

McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

McGonagall: But, Albus . . . surely . . . who?

Dumbledore: The question is not who. The question is, how.

And from what Harry could see of Professor McGonagall's shadowy face, she didn't understand this any better than he did.


	11. The Dueling Club

Harry woke up on Sunday morning to find the dormitory blazing with winter sunlight and his arm reboned but very stiff. He sat up quickly and looked over at Colin's bed, but it had been blocked from view by the high curtains Harry had changed behind yesterday. Seeing that he was awake, Madam Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then began bending and stretching his arm and fingers.

Pomfrey: All in order.

He clumsily fed himself porridge left-handed.

Pomfrey: When you've finished eating, you may leave.

Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to tell Ron, Taylor, Grace, and Hermione about Colin and Dobby, but they weren't there. Harry left to look for them, wondering where they could have got to and feeling slightly hurt that they weren't interested in whether he had his bones back or not. As Harry passed the library, Percy Weasley strolled out of it, looking in far better spirits than last time they'd met.

Percy: Oh, hello, Harry. Excellent flying yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor has just taken the lead for the House Cup—you earned fifty points!

Harry: You haven't seen Ron, Taylor, Grace, or Hermione, have you?

Percy: No, I haven't. I hope Ron's not in another girls' toilet…

Harry forced a laugh, watched Percy walk out of sight, and then headed straight for Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. He couldn't see why Ron, Taylor, Grace, and Hermione would be in there again, but after making sure that neither Filch nor any prefects were around, he opened the door and heard their voices coming from a locked stall.

Harry: It's me.

He closed the door behind him. There was a clunk, a splash, and a gasp from within the stall and he saw Hermione's eye peering through the keyhole.

Hermione: Harry! You gave us such a fright—come in—how's your arm?

Harry: Fine.

He squeezed into the stall. An old cauldron was perched on the toilet, and a crackling from under the rim told Harry they had lit a fire beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires was a specialty of Hermione and Grace's.

Taylor: We'd've come to meet you, but we decided to get started on the Polyjuice Potion. We've decided this is the safest place to hide it.

Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Grace interrupted.

Grace: We already know—we heard Professor McGonagall telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That's why we decided we'd better get going.

Ron: The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the better. D'you know what I think? He was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match, he took it out on Colin.

Harry: There's something else. Dobby came to visit me in the middle of the night.

Ron, Taylor, Grace, and Hermione looked up, amazed. Harry told them everything Dobby had told him—or hadn't told him. Hermione, Taylor, Grace, and Ron listened with their mouths open.

Grace: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?

Taylor: This settles it. Lucius Malfoy must've opened the Chamber when he was at school here and now he's told dear old Draco how to do it. It's obvious. Wish Dobby'd told you what kind of monster is in there, though. I want to know how come nobody's noticed it sneaking around the school.

Grace: Maybe it can make itself invisible. Or maybe it can disguise itself — pretend to be a suit of armor or something — I've read about Chameleon Ghouls…

Ron: You read too much, Grace. So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and broke your arm… You know what, Harry? If he doesn't stop trying to save your life he's going to kill you.

The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by Monday morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone. Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin Creevey in Charms, was distraught, but Harry felt that Fred and George were going the wrong way about cheering her up. They were taking turns covering themselves with fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs. Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger; he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.

Neville: They went for Filch first. And everyone knows I'm almost a Squib.

In the second week of December Professor McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for Christmas. Harry, Taylor, Grace, Ron, and Hermione signed her list; they had heard that Draco was staying, which struck them as very suspicious. The holidays would be the perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to worm a confession out of him.

Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They still needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, and the only place they were going to get them was from Snape's private stores. Harry privately felt he'd rather face Slytherin's legendary monster than let Snape catch him robbing his office.

Hermione: What we need is a diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Snape's office and take what we need.

Harry, Taylor, and Ron looked at her nervously.

Hermione: I think Grace or I'd better do the actual stealing. Harry and Ron will be expelled if they get into any more trouble, and Grace and I've got a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.

Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape's Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Thursday afternoon's lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors' work while the Slytherins sniggered appreciatively. Draco Malfoy, who was Snape's favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron and Harry, who knew that if they retaliated they would get detention faster than you could say 'unfair'. Harry's Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he had his mind on more important things. He was waiting for Hermione's signal, and he hardly listened as Snape paused to sneer at his watery potion. When Snape turned and walked off to bully Neville, Hermione caught Harry's eye and nodded. Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron, pulled one of Fred's Filibuster fireworks out of his pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his wand. The firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had only seconds, Harry straightened up, took aim, and lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in Goyle's cauldron. Goyle's potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate — Snape was trying to restore calm and find out what had happened. Through the confusion, Harry saw Hermione slip quietly into Snape's office.

Snape: Silence! SILENCE! Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draught—when I find out who did this…

Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Malfoy hurry forward, his head drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon. As half the class lumbered up to Snape's desk, some weighted down with arms like clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffedup lips, Harry saw Hermione slide back into the dungeon, the front of her robes bulging. When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the various swellings had subsided, Snape swept over to Goyle's cauldron and scooped out the twisted black remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.

Snape: If I ever find out who threw this. I shall make sure that person is expelled.

Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a puzzled expression.

Snape was looking right at him, and the bell that rang ten minutes later could not have been more welcome.

Harry: He knew it was me. I could tell.

Grace threw the new ingredients into the cauldron and began to stir feverishly.

Grace: It'll be ready in two weeks.

Taylor: Snape can't prove it was you. What can he do?

Harry: Knowing Snape, something foul.

A week later, Taylor, Grace, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them over, looking excited.

Seamus: They're starting a Dueling Club! First meeting tonight! I wouldn't mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days…

Ron: What, you reckon Slytherin's monster can duel? Could be useful. Shall we go?

Ron, Harry, Taylor, Grace, and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o'clock that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

Grace: I wonder who'll be teaching us? Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was young—maybe it'll be him.

Taylor: As long as it's not… Oh no.

Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black. Lockhart waved an arm for silence.

Lockhart: Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent! Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works. Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape. He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry—you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!

Ron: Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?

Snape's upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at him like that he'd have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them.

Lockhart: As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position. On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.

Taylor: I wouldn't bet on that.

Lockhart: One… two… three…

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent.

Snape: Expelliarmus!

There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet. He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor. Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Hermione and Grace were dancing on their tiptoes.

Hermione: Do you think he's all right?

Taylor, Ron, and Harry: Who cares?

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.

Lockhart: Well, there you have it! That was a Disarming Charm — as you see, I've lost my wand—ah, thank you, Miss Brown—yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy — however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…

Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed.

Lockhart: Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me.

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry and Ron first.

Snape: Time to split up the dream team, I think Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter…

Harry moved automatically toward Taylor.

Snape: I don't think so. Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Mr. Potter. And you, Miss Granger—you can partner Miss Bulstrode. Miss Taylor can partner up with Miss Parkinson. Finally Miss Grace can partner up with Miss Greengrass.

Draco strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked three Slytherin girls.

Lockhart: Face your partners! And bow!

Harry and Draco barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.

Lockhart: Wands at the ready! When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents—only to disarm them—we don't want any accidents—one… two…three…

Harry swung his wand high, but Draco had already started on 'two'. His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as though he'd been hit over the head with a saucepan. He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his wand straight at Draco.

Harry: Rictusempra!

A jet of silver light hit Draco in the stomach and he doubled up, wheezing.

Lockhart: I said disarm only!

Draco sank to his knees; Harry had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and he could barely move for laughing. Harry hung back, with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch Draco while he was on the floor, but this was a mistake; gasping for breath, Draco pointed his wand at Harry's knees.

Draco: Tarantallegra!

Harry's legs began to jerk around out of his control in a kind of quickstep.

Lockhart: Stop! Stop!

Snape took charge.

Snape: Finite Incantatem!

Harry's feet stopped dancing, Draco stopped laughing, and they were able to look up. A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done; Grace was holding Astoria's wand proudly in her hand; Pansy was holding an angry Taylor's wand in her hand; but Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still moving; Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands lay forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt forward and pulled Millicent off. It was difficult. She was a lot bigger than he was.

Lockhart: Dear, dear. Up you go, Macmillan. Careful there, Miss Fawcett. Pinch it hard, it'll stop bleeding in a second, Boot—I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells

He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away.

Lockhart: Let's have a volunteer pair — Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you…

Snape: A bad idea, Professor Lockhart. Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox.

Neville's round, pink face went pinker.

Snape: How about Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter?

Lockhart: Excellent idea!

He gestured Harry and Draco into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.

Lockhart: Now, Harry when Draco points his wand at you, you do this.

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up.

Lockhart: Whoops—my wand is a little overexcited.

Snape moved closer to Draco, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Draco smirked, too. Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart.

Harry: Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?

Draco: Scared?

Harry: You wish.

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder.

Lockhart: Just do what I did, Harry!

Harry: What, drop my wand?

But Lockhart wasn't listening.

Lockhart: Three… two… one… go!

Draco raised his wand quickly.

Draco: Serpensortia!

The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.

Snape: Don't move, Potter. I'll get rid of it…

Lockhart: Allow me!

He brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike. Harry wasn't sure what made him do it. He wasn't even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him forward as though he was on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the snake.

Harry: Leave him alone!

And miraculously—inexplicably—the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry. Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the snake wouldn't attack anyone now, though how he knew it, he couldn't have explained. He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful — but certainly not angry and scared.

Justin: What do you think you're playing at?

Before Harry could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall. Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn't like it. He was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a tugging on the back of his robes.

Ron: Come on. Move—come on…

Ron and Taylor steered him out of the hall, Grace and Hermione hurrying alongside them. As they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though they were frightened of catching something. Harry didn't have a clue what was going on, and Taylor, Grace, Ron, or Hermione did not explain anything until they had dragged him all the way up to the empty Gryffindor common room. Then Ron pushed Harry into an armchair.

Taylor: You're a Parselmouth. Why didn't you tell us?

Harry: I'm a what?

Taylor: A Parselmouth! You can talk to snakes!

Harry: I know— I mean, that's only the second time I've ever done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor on Dudley at the zoo once, it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to—that was before I knew I was a wizard…

Taylor: A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?

Harry: So? I bet loads of people here can do it.

Grace: Oh, no they can't. It's not a very common gift. Harry, this is bad.

Harry: What's bad? What's wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn't told that snake not to attack Justin…

Ron: Oh, that's what you said to it?

Harry: What d'you mean? You were there—you heard me…

Ron: I heard you speaking Parseltongue. Snake language. You could have been saying anything—no wonder Justin panicked, you sounded like you were egging the snake on or something—it was creepy, you know…

Harry gaped at him.

Harry: I spoke a different language? But—I didn't realize—how can I speak a language without knowing I can speak it?

Ron shook his head. Taylor, Ron, Grace, and Hermione were looking as though someone had died. Harry couldn't see what was so terrible.

Harry: D'you want to tell me what's wrong with stopping a massive snake from biting off Justin's head? What does it matter how I did it as long as Justin doesn't have to join the Headless Hunt?

Hermione: It matters because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That's why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.

Harry's mouth fell open.

Ron: Exactly. And now the whole school is going to think you're his great-great-great-great-grandson or something…

Taylor: Oh great that means Amy, Grace, and I are going to be ignored. No one will want to go near us with you being our brother. Poor Amy.

Harry: But I'm not his descendent and neither are you three.

Hermione: You'll find that hard to prove. He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.

Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the curtains around his four-poster he watched snow starting to drift past the tower window and wondered… Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? He didn't know anything about his father's family, after all. The Dursleys had always forbidden questions about his wizarding relatives. Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue. The words wouldn't come. It seemed he had to be face-to-face with a snake to do it. But I'm in Gryffindor, Harry thought. The Sorting Hat wouldn't have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood… Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin, don't you remember? Harry turned over. He'd see Justin the next day in Herbology and he'd explain that he'd been calling the snake off, not egging it on, which (he thought angrily, pummeling his pillow) any fool should have realized. By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust to no one else, now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey. Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, while Ron and Taylor used their time off to play a game of wizard chess.

Taylor: For heaven's sake, Harry

One of Ron's bishops wrestled her knight off his horse and dragged him off the board.

Taylor: Go and find Justin if it's so important to you.

So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering where Justin might be. The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, Harry walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to take a look, Harry walked on by, thinking that Justin might be using his free time to catch up on some work, and deciding to check the library first. A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn't seem to be working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see that their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation. He couldn't see whether Justin was among them. He was walking toward them when something of what they were saying met his ears, and he paused to listen, hidden in the Invisibility section.

Boy: So anyway. I told Justin to hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter's marked him down as his next victim, it's best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin actually told him he'd been down for Eton. That's not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin's heir on the loose, is it?

Girl: You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?

Ernie: Hannah he's a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that's the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue.

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie went on.

Ernie: Remember what was written on the wall? _'Enemies of the Heir, Beware'_.

Potter had some sort of run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch's cat's attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him while he was lying in the mud. Next thing we know—Creevey's been attacked.

Hannah: He always seems so nice, though and, well, he's the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can't be all bad, can he?

Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and Harry edged nearer so that he could catch Ernie's words.

Ernie: No one knows how he survived that attack by You-Know-Who.

I mean to say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse like that. That's probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter's been hiding?

Harry couldn't take anymore. Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves. If he hadn't been feeling so angry, he would have found the sight that greeted him funny. Every one of the Hufflepuffs looked as though the sight of him had petrified them, and the color was draining out of Ernie's face.

Harry: Hello I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley.

The Hufflepuffs' worst fears had clearly been confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Ernie.

Ernie: What do you want with him?

Harry: I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Dueling Club.

Ernie bit his white lips and then, he took a deep breath.

Ernie: We were all there. We saw what happened.

Harry: Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?

Ernie: All I saw was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.

Harry: I didn't chase it at him! It didn't even touch him!

Ernie: It was a very near miss. And in case you're getting ideas I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood's as pure as anyone's, so…

Harry: I don't care what sort of blood you've got! Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?

Ernie: I've heard you hate those Muggles you live with.

Harry: It's not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them. I'd like to see you try it.

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, earning himself a reproving glare from Madam Pince, who was polishing the gilded cover of a large spellbook. Harry blundered up the corridor, barely noticing where he was going, he was in such a fury. The result was that he walked into something very large and solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor.

Harry: Oh, hello, Hagrid.

Hagrid's face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-covered balaclava, but it couldn't possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive, gloved hands.

Hagrid: All righ', Harry? Why aren't yeh in class?

Harry: Canceled. What're you doing in here?

Hagrid held up the limp rooster.

Hagrid: Second one killed this term. It's either foxes or a Blood-Suckin' Bugbear, an' I need the headmaster's permission ter put a charm around the hen coop.

He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick, snowflecked eyebrows.

Hagrid: Yeh sure yeh're all righ'? Yeh look all hot an' bothered…

Harry couldn't bring himself to repeat what Ernie and the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about him.

Harry: It's nothing. I'd better get going, Hagrid, it's Transfiguration next and I've got to pick up my books.

He walked off, his mind still full of what Ernie had said about him. _'Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born…'_

Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. He was halfway down the passage when he tripped headlong over something lying on the floor. He turned to squint at what he'd fallen over and felt as though his stomach had dissolved. Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn't all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Harry had ever seen. It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to Justin's. Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart doing a kind of drumroll against his ribs. He looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could away from the bodies. The only sounds were the muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either side. He could run, and no one would ever know he had been there. But he couldn't just leave them lying here… He had to get help… Would anyone believe he hadn't had anything to do with this? As he stood there, panicking, a door right next to him opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.

Peeves: Why, it's potty wee Potter! What's Potter up to? Why's Potter lurking…

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and, before Harry could stop him.

Peeves: ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!

Crash—crash—crash—door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion that Justin was in danger of being squashed and people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harry found himself pinned against the wall as the teachers shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came running, followed by her own class, one of whom still had black-and-white-striped hair. She used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.

Ernie: Caught in the act!

He pointed his finger dramatically at Harry.

McGonagall: That will do, Macmillan!

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song.

Peeves: _Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done, You're killing off students, you think it's good fun_ …

McGonagall: That's enough, Peeves!

Peeves zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harry. Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This left Harry and Professor McGonagall alone together.

McGonagall: This way, Potter.

Harry: Professor, I swear I didn't…

McGonagall: This is out of my hands, Potter.

They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.

McGonagall: Lemon drop!

This was evidently a password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry couldn't fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin. He knew now where he was being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.


End file.
